


Howl

by shannonymous



Series: New Again [7]
Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Iron Man - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood, Explicit Consent, Horror, M/M, Mpreg, Polyamory, Possession, Sex, Trans Character, just raunchy, like really lots of horror i'm not even kidding, whoops sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-04
Updated: 2015-12-14
Packaged: 2018-04-24 20:23:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 20,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4934041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shannonymous/pseuds/shannonymous
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve is acting really fucking weird, Tony can't keep his mouth shut, and Bucky wonders where he screwed up to get saddled with these two assholes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. a prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this because I wanted someone to say, "i'm gonna cut that brat out of you"
> 
> and i know, i know, you don't have to tell me. it wasn't even going to be this verse, but i'm literally the worst so uh sorry y'all 
> 
> it's mainly relationship trouble chocolate chip with horror sprinkles on it, my specialty

His face is hot and slick with blood, dripping into his eyes at a slow, maddening trickle that keeps him half-blind and disoriented—but that could be the concussion. Maybe. That isn’t important. What’s important has him running, still desperately moving towards it. He isn’t sure what he’s lost, but he will not leave without it, not with _her_.

 Turning a sharp corner, he stumbles and stops abruptly in new, familiar surroundings. He spins, concrete replaced by the sleek hardwood floors of the common room. _How did I get here?_ His vision swims as he turns back, expecting to see the tunnels he’d just been sprinting through, but only she is there, standing still and silent. Her hair hangs limply around her face, unlike the writhing mess he remembers.

 _What’s happening?_ He means to ask. He means a lot of things.

The sky is black behind her.

 He watches in horror, rooted to the spot as she slips one, two, then all five fingers into her mouth and draws a blade from her gaping, hungry maw. Fear grabs him by the balls, yanking so hard he feels his stomach lurch into his chest. It is coming, the end of all things.

 He doesn’t see her move but she’s slitting her own throat, blood gushing over her hand as she works the blade slow. She’s still smiling, and her lips are moving, though he doesn’t need to hear words he already knows.

  _With your hand on his throat_.

 He glances down to see it’s his hand holding the razor, fingers pressing into the ruins of gutted cartilage. A sound of disgust works itself out of his mouth, but then he’s spitting, choking on the copper taste of black blood as it swells in his chest, tendrils wrapping tight about his bones and sinking so deep. 

 Wrenching away, he’s only faced with _himself_ standing there, smiling too wide for his face— with his throat ripped open and two black, black holes for eyes—

  _He’s burning._

 

 Steve wakes with a startled gasp that isn’t enough to wake Tony, who sleeps on beside him. Bucky, however, is watching him with a book half-open and forgotten on his lap. It’s clear that he hasn’t been sleeping well, especially of late.

 “You good?” He asks once Steve’s racing heart has calmed down, recognizing his surroundings as _home, safe_.

 Steve’s been out of medical for weeks, but they won’t stop worrying about him; the wound has healed, with a promise of no lasting effects of the witch’s venom. Well… he’ll never _really_ be able get the memory of her jaw spreading wide, unhinging in order to sink needle-point teeth into the meat of his shoulder.

He only offers a soft “yeah, don’t worry about me,” as he flops back against the mattress, his pillow soaked with sweat. He huffs out slowly, scrubbing his hand over his face, and the sleeping brunet by his side curls closer, seeking the heat of Steve’s body. Turning into the touch, Steve can feel Bucky’s gaze at his back, but he ignores it, breathing in the musky scent of sleep and something sweet.

Clearly, Bucky can see something’s wrong, because his skeptical tone is thick when he insists, “Are you sure you’re okay?”

 “Fine,” Steve assures him, and then heaves himself from the bed to find his sweats.

Bucky doesn’t look away, his eyes narrowing in the dimly lit room.  “You’re shaking,” he says, accusing.

 “It was just a bad dream, Buck, leave it alone,” Steve snaps. “Do I hound _you_ when you wake up screaming—“ he shuts up abruptly, temper flared. The other settles back into bed, regarding him with silent consideration, and he feels a pang of worry.

“I’m fine. I just need to run it off, all right?” Steve lies before adding an unnecessary, “Take care of him. I won’t be gone long.” He leaves with full intentions to run and clear his head, but winds up turning heel once he’s at the stairs.

 “I’m sorry,” he rushes out, back in their bedroom. “I don’t know why I said that.”

 Bucky looks up from where he’d pressed his face against Tony’s back and laughs softly. “Steve,” he says gently, untangling himself from the sheets and meeting the blond in the threshold. “What are we going to do with you?” Then he’s kissing him, eager, and Steve forgets about his run, only if for an hour.

 

When Bucky thinks back to this night, holding onto a limp, lifeless hand with the steady beat of a heart monitor keeping time, he wonders how he could have missed the signs.  


	2. Chapter 2

  
There’s something off about Tony that Steve can’t put his finger on. He’s physically drawn to the other man, finding himself hovering more often than not. If it didn’t sound strange, he’d tell them that Tony even _smells_ different. Not to mention, he’s been sleeping in and going to bed early— usually, he’d be thrilled with this development.  
   
Honestly, it’s the most he’s seen Tony in bed since he’s stopped drinking. And that’s what worries him, because the other man isn’t known for keeping to routines. Not healthy ones, at least, and it’s obvious in his sickly pallor and lethargy that he isn’t up to par. Though he’s their leader, it isn’t a _job_ to care about Tony, and decides he’ll broach this subject not as Cap, but Steve.  
   
As he strides from the elevator (balancing a tray of coffees and juice with a bag of bagels and another full of every spread the shop offered) texting with his free hand to wake Tony, he finds that he doesn’t have to.  
   
It’s half past 9 and the man is surprisingly out of bed, but he’s curled up on the couch, drifting with his head against Bucky’s thigh. It isn’t often they show affection other than kissing, and it’s nice to see them so close. (Except when they sleep, they gravitate towards the nearest heat source and Steve often wakes to one, if not both, plastered against his side.)  
   
Bucky’s got a hand in Tony’s hair, scratching gently at his scalp, and it looks as if he’s putting the man back to sleep. He’s scanning the newspaper, holding it one-handed and only lifting the other to turn pages.  
   
It’s too calm, too perfect of a picture to disrupt. Neither of them acknowledges Steve as he sits at Tony’s feet, pulling them onto his lap. It’s a comfortable silence. He can’t just admit something feels wrong if he can’t put a name to it. He’s been working up the nerve to say something, rearranging words in his head, when Bucky clears his throat.  
   
“Spit it out, Stevie, you look like you’re gonna blow a gasket.”  
   
Steve flushes and the other shoots him a grin. Tony hums sleepily.  
   
“I was thinking we could try something out. Something new, I mean.” Steve gives a slow smile, looking, with little to no effort at all, like he’s genuinely asking. Like he doesn’t have a bloodlust waiting to be sated, lingering there under his skin at the thought. Less brooding, more touching.  “Maybe Saturday.”  
   
Tony snorts at that, eyes closed. Suddenly, his whole posture reads ‘ _aware’_ , and he sits up to take one of the coffees Steve brought.  
   
 “Are we scheduling our sex life? Because this is quite literally the last thing I want to do— it’s the first sign on a long list of a failing marriage,” he rambles, excited words stumbling over one another. “We’re gonna start playing bridge with Reed and Sue from down the street, fight about what color to paint the dining room, reserve ‘kinky’ nights for Fridays because we don’t have work in the morning. We’re acting like we’re married, shackled up with the proverbial ball and chain... oh god, did we? Did we get hitched when I wasn’t paying attention?”  
   
“Even you’d’a noticed that,” Bucky deadpans, eyes scanning the article he’s been reading.  
   
“Not the point,” the brunette counters. “Cap’s trying to commit relationship homicide and you’re taking shots at me?”  
   
Bucky scoffs and turns a page. “You’d know if I was takin’ shots, Stark.”  
   
This is how they love each other, setting traps and waiting for the other to take the bait.  
   
“Fellas,” Steve decides to interject before they get too far. It was so nice and he just had to say something. “If we can’t be civil about this, we can just drop it.”  
   
Tony half-sneers, and though he hides his mouth against his cup of coffee, the other can clearly see it there. Steve raises his brows in the slightest, almost begging. He’d like to go one morning without the cats fighting each other. He’s rather sick of the yowling.  
   
“Go ahead and try to plan our sex life, Cap,” Tony sighs dramatically, shoulders falling in faux-defeat. “I suppose we’ll be drinking brandy in by the fire while we reminisce about the good ole days now. I’ll order our matching robes and slippers on Monday.”  
   
Bucky can’t help himself. “I like black.”  
   
“What I’m trying to say here—“ Steve starts, but Tony groans and leans back in his chair.  
   
“What _are_ you trying to say, Cap? We should feel blessed that a prude like you can even talk about this out in the open.”  
   
“Prude who?” Bucky taunts with a glance between the others. He's smirking even as his eyes pick up where he left off in the article about recent veteran disappearances. “Steve’s fucking insatiable. He’s fucked me twice just today.”  
   
Steve flushes red, almost frustrated he can’t get a word in, but he taps the underside of Tony’s gaping jaw to close the man’s mouth. His teeth click audibly with the force, and it seems to jar him from his shock.  
   
“It isn’t even _ten_ , didn’t you go out this morning— when did you— what?”  
   
Suddenly, Steve can see jealousy written on the other’s face. It burns bright there, a shining beacon of doubt. He leans forward to take Tony’s hand, words of apology and placation already forming on the tip of his tongue. Tony, however, quickly jerks away.  
   
“J,” he says, plucking his forgotten tablet from the coffee table beside him, “Play the surveillance from this morning.”  
   
This time, Bucky’s head snaps to attention as he drops the newspaper to his side. “I thought you said it wouldn’t record us having sex.”  
   
“ _He_ ,” Tony shoots him a look, “doesn’t record me having sex.” The famous condescending eye roll and well-known disappointment at being underestimated. “Don’t you think I’d like to know if someone else other than me was fucking around in my tower?”  
   
“I thought it was _our_ tower,” Steve says. Bucky pulls a face at him for his lack of prying, obviously unable to ask the important questions.  
   
The blond barely notices him, eyes fixed on the tablet in Tony’s hand. Even with the glare on the screen, he can see the muscles tensing in his own shoulders as he holds Bucky down. He had bent him over the table while Tony slept, fucking the early-morning snark out of him.   
   
“ _You wanna say that again?_ ” Steve hears his voice from the tablet, sounding small and far away. The only response is Bucky’s heavy breathing, but he can remember the way the other had shaken his head, gasping for air as Steve pounded into him. If he recalls correctly, Bucky had gripped the edge of the table tight enough for the wood to creak and said—  
   
“ _Don’t fucking stop_ ,” and Tony is clearly judging the soldier’s voice, pitched almost at a whine. “ _Don’t you dare fucking stop, Steve, I swear to God—“_  
   
“ _Don’t worry, sweetheart, I gotcha. This what you need, someone filling you up? Gonna make it so good for you, I wanna see you come apart for me— wanna watch you come on my cock—_ “ there are the tell-tale groans of Bucky getting close, low and pleading; the sharp crack of an open palm on skin— “ _Yeah_ ,” says the approving voice of Steve Rogers, doubled over Bucky half-sobbing through an orgasm, “ _fuck yeah, just like that, sweetheart, Christ—_ “  
   
Tony breaks his gaze to look accusingly at Steve, setting the tablet on the table. Though he’s stopped watching, the recording still plays; they can all hear Steve growl obscenities against Bucky’s shoulder as he fills him. Flesh-and-blood Steve looks equal parts proud and guilty, sitting there like he wasn’t just caught with his literal pants down.  
   
“You had sex on the table,” Tony says thickly, like his mouth doesn’t want to move. The words sound strange, because they're a mask for the things he refuses to say.  “We _eat_ there, you sluts.”  
   
Bucky offers a reasonable, “We do _not_ —” at the same time that Steve defends himself with: “We cleaned up!“ They glance at each other, flushed red with good-natured shame.  
   
“It isn’t that bad,” Steve appeals.  
   
Tony scoffs a laugh at them, pointing at the tablet. “Isn’t that bad?” He asks, incredulous as he waves a dismissive hand. Neither man needs to look at the screen; in fact, they’re well aware of what they’d see there.  
   
Steve winces at the sloppy sound of his fingers squelching through the mess he’d made of Bucky.  It sounds as if they’re doing it right here, right now, right in front of Tony.  
   
 The quality is top-notch, really. Sometimes ( _see: at this very moment_ ) Steve thinks it’s a little unnecessary.  
   
“You two are having mind-blowing sex, humping each other like teenagers on the table, while I’m asleep? How often—you know what, don’t answer that.” Tony shakes his head as he stands, leaving his tablet as he walks off. He’d rather not see the second time, if it’s anything like the first. He doesn’t get far before Steve catches him from behind.  
   
“C’mon Tony,” he nuzzles at the base of the brunette’s skull. “Why are you so upset? You’ve put your mouth in some pretty questionable places. Tell me what's really eatin' you... I can't help if you won't let me in."  
   
The man shrugs him off, and Steve lets him go. “I’m sick of feeling like a third wheel in my own—“ he seems to struggle with the word, “relationship. So get the fuck off me and go do what you do best.”  
   
“Yeah?” Steve asks, watching Tony stalk off. The best thing is to let him cool off when he can’t soothe away that burning anger, but he worries it might spark and flame. “And what’s that?”  
   
“Fixing shit that isn’t broken,” the man throws venomously over his shoulder.  
 

  
*  
 

  
It only takes two of the three hours Tony allots for Steve to come find him. Always Steve. The man doesn't say a word, simply sidling against his back and pressing his face against a mark he'd left a few days before.

  
"You were right," Steve eventually hums into Tony's hair once the man has all but forgotten his presence, his weight a comforting anchor at his back. He relishes in this close contact, all that he's been avoiding for reasons he can't really justify or even quite remember.  
   
There is a sense of longing there that Tony feels, heavy and lingering. The soil in the garden of his heart is rocky, untended by carelessness and avoidance. Steve is plucking at the weeds, unaware that he's killing the only thing that grows there, and soon there will be nothing left but bare dirt.  
   
"It's not you," Tony caves with a sigh. "I'm stupid for letting this get to me. What am I angry about? The two people I fuck are fucking each other, I don't see a problem in that. I shouldn't see a problem with that. I can have one without the other, you should too. I'm just... being selfish."  
   
"It's all right to be selfish, but you always clam up too tight, Tony." Without saying it, Steve acknowledges that it's his place to check it, to step in before this man sinks too far and drowns in his regret.  
   
"I'm not clamming up, Steve. I'm working." Without seeing it, Tony can feel Steve's skeptical look, spreading fondly. "I mean it. It isn't anything serious. I know I have you both, I've just been so busy—"  
   
"Do you?" Steve asks. "Do you know that?' The silence is uncertain, and the other is tense. “We haven’t been neglecting you. I saw you curled up on Buck’s lap this morning, you lush,” he smiles. Tony tries to return it.    
   
A sudden, but not unwelcome, streak of possessive want burns in Steve. He wants to soothe away this doubt that Tony won't let go of, the doubt that keeps widening the fissures and cracks in their foundations.  
   
"Maybe I have been neglecting you in my own way,” he admits to himself. He knows that Tony locks himself away, refuses to allow anything past his walls when he puts them up. In a way, he feels guilty for not seeing it sooner.  "We know what you're like." Tony goes to protest but Steve fixes him with a look. "Everyone knows what you're like, Tony, always locking yourself away. Bucky notices, but he doesn't..." he trails off.  
   
Then, with all the regret he can muster into his words, he says, "I should have paid attention, but this is all so new and I— I just keep making mistakes." For all people idolize him, it's hard to forget he isn't always right, that his way isn't always best, that he’s just some kid trying to figure it out.  
   
Tony groans heavily and leans back against a solid chest. "Apology accepted, Cap."  
   
Steve shakes his head, caught halfway between amusement and confusion. "But I haven't apologized."  
  
"No," Tony agrees, "but you were getting there and I felt this talk was getting a touch too deep for this early in the morning. Tell ya what. How about we take the day off, go a few rounds, and if I'm still being a little bitch about it, you can spank me, or... whatever it is Buck likes when he's bent over your knee."  
  
Steve's eyes go dark, and heat rushes south at the open look of hunger on his face. He can't help but picture it, Bucky's mouth smeared with slick between Tony's thighs, all that pale skin marked up nice and pink. He can almost imagine the obscene, wet sounds. His tight grip on Tony's hips betrays his careful words. "I want to do what you like—"  
  
Tony cuts off him off with an insistent, promising kiss.  The man's fingertips dig in and find bone, pinpoints of low pain that dully register in the back of Tony's mind compared to the throbbing, hungry want between his thighs. Pressing close, he can feel Steve's cock fattening up against his thigh and rocks forward.  
  
He swallows the hiss of breath, and panting softly against the other's mouth, he says, “I like _this_. If we don't get to bed, Rogers, I'm fucking you right here on this table."  
  
The blond draws back, looking over Tony's shoulder as if he's quite seriously considering the option. Thinking of all that skin presses him to kiss Tony again, searching for the yield he knows the other wants to give. He feels it bleed out in increments, the other man melting against him.  
  
Steve's voice is pitched low, the scene in his head playing out as he describes it: "I'm gonna bring you upstairs—I'd carry you if you'd let me, but you won't— and Bucky's waiting in bed. I told him kneel for you, that you'd be right there to take care of him, and then I'm gonna take care of you both." He searches Tony's gaze for any flicker of doubt and is relieved to find none. "Good?"  
  
"Very," and Steve has to pull away from another searing kiss before they get too caught up. He laughs against Tony's mouth before pulling away.  
  
"We don't wanna keep him waiting, do we?" He says, walking off and knowing that Tony will follow (which he does, quite eagerly).  
  
"No sir." It's quipped, cheeky, but the words still resonate low in Steve's belly— enough to have him crowd Tony into a corner and all but devour his mouth, desperate to claim. It's been too long since he's had this man, and he has to fight the longing to take him here in the elevator.  
  
When they stop at their floor, they barely notice the doors sliding open, but Tony draws back, face flushed, placing his hand on Steve's chest. He can feel the man's heart pounding, and if he couldn't feel the excitement against his hip, he'd think Steve was nervous.  
  
"We don't want to keep him waiting," Tony grins, effortlessly slipping from the hold the other's got him caged in. He likes this, the tight pull of anticipation knotting low in his belly, likes the pang of it deepening as he looks over his shoulder to see Steve following him, blue eyes hooded with keen, hungry want.  
  
The blond's gaze flickers from unabashedly staring at Tony's ass to meet the man's eyes. "You're insufferable," he says lowly, but the only heat behind it is fueled by lust that looks positively wolfish on the man's face. "We'll have to fix that."  
  
"You couldn't if you wanted to," Tony answers, smug. "And you don't want, so good luck." For the third time he's crowded in by Steve Rogers-- this time, outside of their bedroom, chest flat to the wall.  
  
"I could if I tried," Steve hums, hips rocking forward like he's testing the space between them, how close he can get. He wants nothing more than to be closer, to take this man apart with his fingers all wet from his own slick.  
  
"How about we try getting in bed for once," Tony tries not to gasp, but he's strung out on the teasing fingers dipping into the waistband of his jeans.  
  
Steve's mouth finds his pulse point, tongue laving over the spot. He loves the taste of Tony's heart racing under his attention, the spike of adrenaline sharp like blood. It stirs low inside of him that he can do this, lure Tony from the solid walls of his self-erected walls. He wants to soothe away the mortar keeping stone in place and have it crumble away at his touch, wants to show this man that though there is pain outside of his fortress, there is so much more.  
  
More than anything, he wants to reduce Tony to nothing but sounds, keep that smart mouth working too hard for speech. He seems to be successful, his ministrations earning him half-moans and stuttered pleading.  
  
"Fuck, yeah, please—" Tony responds so beautifully to Steve's searching fingers that are slipping in the wetness he finds between the man's legs. "Fuck, that's good…" he breaks off to moan out as Steve uses the slick to tease the swell of Tony's prick. The other is too close, the space between them heavy with their combined heat and Tony's almost drowning in it, weighed down by their clothes, the too-tight feeling of them pressed together.  
  
Steve's panting softly on his throat, clearly getting off on drawing out those noises and he pets his fingertips over the head of Tony's prick. The man starts forward, hips jerking involuntarily at the overstimulation. He's hot here, almost burning, and swollen with arousal— Steve's knees are weak, ready to drop and bury his face in the heat, soothe it away. But that would be selfish.  
  
"Come on," he bites at the skin he can find, leading Tony into the bedroom. The man trips over himself, legs weak with the insinuation he feels in Steve's grip, and the sight that greets them when they enter.  
  
Sitting on the bed, half-hard and trying to look disinterested, is Bucky Barnes wearing a bedsheet and not much else other than a smirk. He looks bright, aware— eager.  
   
"Thought you two wouldn't make it," he laments, teasing. "I was ready to finish myself off."  
  
"As if we'd miss out on this," Tony snorts, surging onto the bed to catch Bucky in a rough kiss. Their teeth connect hard, and Tony revels in their arousal resonating through his bones. The other laughs into Tony's mouth, arms moving quickly to hold the man's body against his. Through the clothes, he can feel the heat of Tony's core bleeding out, can feel the throb of want against his thigh.  
  
"Steve's already gotcha goin, huh?" he asks breathlessly, metal fingers slipping over the same places Steve's fingers had been only moments before, only above the clothes. Tony answers, hiccupping an affirmative as he rocks forward almost desperately. He feels like a teenager, terribly turned-on and awfully out of control.  
   
It's been too long since they've done this, and Tony can't help but feel that it's his fault. In penance, he pours his regret into another kiss, Bucky devouring his contrition and licking him clean. They both turn when Steve's weight dips the bed, but he shakes his head.  
  
"Keep going," he says lowly, eyes fixed on the two of them tangled up in their bed. They hesitate at the request, even as they are hip-to-hip and their mouths are swollen with absolution. "Really, I wanna see it," he adds, shucking his shirt and throwing it to the floor. It's not hard to enjoy the sight of Tony rocking in Bucky's lap, the sound of their wet mouths.  
   
“You want to watch?”  
  
Steve glances at Tony, flushed cheeks and disheveled hair. “Should I not?”  
   
“Well, that’s what the internet’s for,” comes the answer, stuttered out with Bucky’s mouth against his pulse distracting him.  
   
“I don’t think I can find this on the internet,” Steve laughs, one of his hands traveling the length of Tony’s spine. The brunette rolls his shoulders in response.  
   
“You’re not looking in the right places,” he quips, but leans into the touch.  
   
“Please?” Steve begs, even though he’s smirking. His feather-light touches turn harder, rubbing against the muscles of Tony’s back as he watches Bucky kiss the other man stupid. Just watching them grasp at each other seems like an exaltation he doesn’t feel he deserves, begging for their love.  
   
His next words, however, are a command. "Get him undressed."  
   
Tony's haze doesn't clear quickly enough to register the words, but Bucky springs into action at the order like a good soldier, flipping their position.  
   
Each article of clothing that is stripped from his body is carelessly tossed to the floor, and the skin revealed is greedily devoured by Steve's hot mouth. He whines in response to the teeth leaving marks in places he's never had them before, head clouded with his need for them to just fucking touch him already. He's aware enough to twist out of his jeans with Bucky's help, but even that clarity leaves him when Steve's mouth finds him through the fabric of his briefs.  
  
Lewdly mashing his face against Tony's pubic bone, Steve breathes him in and tastes the scent of sweat and sex. Sloppily kissing the swell there leaves the briefs thoroughly wet with saliva and Tony's slick, thoroughly hot with arousal and Steve's panting breaths. That mix is as close to drunk as he can get, and he works a hand around his cock brief enough for the surge of _fucktakeclaim_ to pass.    
  
Tony huffs impatiently and his mouth is promptly filled with Bucky's thumb, hooking behind his teeth and stroking at the searching tongue. There's a laugh below him, he feels it mouthed against his prick and groans in response, rolling his hips forward.  
  
"Even with your mouth full, you're a needy bastard," Steve says, and presses two fingers against the give of Tony's front hole, the fabric sticking wetly to the man's skin. He sucks at the swollen prick throbbing with impatient need, smirking against the barrier between sex and mouth as he presses harder, shallow fingers only enough to tease.  
  
Tony's head drops onto the pillow, knees falling apart, and now it's Bucky's mouth on his, muffling the groan that escapes. He feels _raw_ , and they haven't even started yet.  
   
"Please," he pants, hips rocking up as Steve sucks hard at his prick, the fabric rough on sensitive skin.  
  
Bucky glances to see Steve panting heavily into Tony's wet briefs, his hand stroking tight but slow around his own cock. He likes the flush across Steve's cheeks and the wanton gasping that man doesn't register as his own voice as he sucks at Tony's prick with the dirtiest, reverent sounds. Bucky keenly slips his fingers against Steve's mouth and together, they rid the man of his briefs.  
  
 Moving down, he meets Steve's open mouth with his, jaw pressed to the wet heat that bleeds from Tony's core. Steve turns his head blindly, the delicate skin of Tony's cunt leaving a streak of slick on his cheekbone, and he fills his mouth with the rigid swell, hallows his cheeks, sucks him root to tip. His fingers find slick to spread it, Bucky's tongue trailing over the smears before he buries it in Tony's boycunt, moaning at the wet sounds of Steve's mouth.  
  
The man beneath them sobs out, fingers twisted up in the sheets as he rocks forward, trying to alleviate the heavy pain in his belly, the sharp pleasure between his legs, which feel too good to go on. He burns under their stare.  
   
"C'mon," and Bucky fucking loves when the blond talks with his mouth full, "gonna come my mouth, Tony? Want it—" he cuts off in a moan, lips sealing around Tony, "fuck, want you to come in my mouth—" sucks him quick, greedy, works his jaw—  
  
 Steve's rewarded with a shout, then stuttering gasps as Tony's thighs jump, like he wants to snap them together, but can't with two men greedily licking at him. He twists away, feeling empty and sated and hungry all at once, but the others easily hold him in place, working him through it. Warmth spreads, tiny jolts pulling another moan out of him.  
  
 "Jesus," Tony slurs, a metal hand coaxing his thigh up to rest on Bucky's shoulders. He vaguely notices the other moving to Steve's, and he's bent in half before he knows it. "You're gonna fucking kill me."  
  
"We're gonna take care of you," Steve corrects him, and Bucky agrees, putting his mouth where the other's had just been, tasting slick and sex and sweat. It's sharper now, and he licks Tony from the inside, chasing it.  He feels the throb of overstimulation, Tony gasping as Bucky takes him into his mouth just to feel the weight of him.  
  
Then Tony practically _keens_ as Steve pets over the dry skin of his hole, thumb pressing shallowly against the muscle. He dips down, using one hand to spread him open, and licks a wet stripe across the dusky, tight skin. The sounds are positively _lewd_ , loud and wet.  
  
The man below them chokes in response, and a desperate hand anchors in blond hair. He sounds fucking _soaked_ when Steve dips his fingers in to collect the slick and smear it over Tony's hole just to lick it away. The muscle goes loose as he eagerly laves his tongue over it, getting him wet enough to sink two fingers in. The stretch is a sudden burn and Bucky hums at the pulsing on his tongue.  
  
Tony loses it again, so tightly strung, and he's so fucking wet he can't think straight with Bucky's mouth on his prick and Steve's tongue on _everywhere else_.   
   
Steve grips his thigh when Tony can't hold still, hips rolling greedily, and pulls back to admire the sight of Tony's wet, swollen sex pulsing with the aftershocks.  "God, you look so good," he praises.  
  
"I feel fucking good," Tony laughs back, scrubbing his hands over his face roughly. He then jerks away from Bucky's searching mouth, and his laughter goes weak, almost wounded. Every muscle is a hot wire, jumping and sensitive, and a hand holds his trembling thigh.  
  
"S'too much, wait—" but Steve's got his other hand buried in Bucky's long hair, drawing him away. He guides the man's mouth to his cock, slipping into the wet heat and he can feel the slick smeared on Bucky's chin when he rocks his hips forward. He pumps forward lazily; lust singing pleasantly each time the head of his cock catches on the ridge of an open, hungry throat.  
  
Tony relaxes, eyes fixed on Bucky's wet, swollen mouth as Steve fucks into it. He feels taken apart, lying here all unraveled and ruined; his prick throbs, sensitive, but he still wants to take more while the others are giving it.  
  
"Put him on his back," and for the first time, Tony notices his voice has gone rough. Has he been shouting? They do that to him, render his mind useless, but he doesn’t care— how could  he be upset with two soldiers in his bed, flushed and hungry?  
   
Steve grins as he complies, and Bucky laps at the head of his cock as the blond smears it across his cheek. He hums fondly as the man mouths at him, blindly searching.  “Behave,” he chastises, but it’s halfhearted, and he slips back into the wet heat.    
   
Bucky’s cock jumps against his belly and Tony leans in, tastes the precum on his skin— he’s gone loose-limbed and slow just with the promise of being taken. The long stretch of the soldier's body moves languidly, smooth skin against the cashmere bedsheets— Porthault, at that, the very designer Jackie O herself would have consulted—both feeling like fucking heaven against his skin, and Tony congratulates himself on his taste.  
   
He busies his mouth with all that skin as he settles himself on Bucky’s hips, grinding his wet prick from sack to frenulum, letting the head of the man’s cock only tease shallowly at his hole. It feels fucking amazing, and all his nerves are short-circuiting as Tony gasps out softly, rocks harder, grips at Bucky’s hip—  
   
“Slow down,” Steve murmurs, sounding distracted, and Tony looks up to see the blond’s eyes fixed on them. He laughs, grinning at the flush on the man’s cheeks and he reaches for a fistful of that straw-colored hair to draw him in for a kiss. It’s quick and chaste, and Steve huffs a winsome laugh.  
   
Impatient at their lengthy interlude, Bucky jolts his hips expectantly, a move to which Steve responds with a sharp slap to the man’s jaw— it isn’t hard, but it’s a warning that it could have been. That it might be.  
   
“I said behave,” Steve reminds gently. He’s holding the soldier’s jaw still, thumb pressed to the hollow apex of bone, fingers sinking into his cheek, when he eases his spit-slick cock back between the parted lips lips. “You can be good for us, can’t ya, sweetheart?”  
   
“Holy fuck—” Tony throbs at the words, the hard cock pressed to his cunt reacting in similar fashion as Bucky nods and relaxes his throat.  “Holy _fuck,_ Steve—“ Blue eyes tear away from Bucky’s mouth to Tony’s, and he thinks that Steve looks far too collected for the situation he’s in.  
   
“Gonna take him, or do I need to step in?” And dear God, Tony’s never been so turned on in his fucking _life_.  
   
He shakes his head. “Not at all, Cap, I’ve got this, don’t worry yourself, like I’ve ever passed up the chance before. I mean, have you seen what you look like right now? It’s like this every time, but it never stops being fucking _awesome_. I’d have to be crazy—“  
   
“Tony,” comes the warning, interrupting him mid-sentence. “Stop talking.” The fondness in Steve’s voice wavers as Bucky takes him deeper, the muscles of his belly tight as he curls forward and tries not to spill down the man’s throat. His fingers press into the hollow between parted teeth, feeling the slide of his cock through Bucky’s cheek.  
   
Tony groans. But he follows orders as always (never), swiftly rearranging himself to straddle one of Bucky’s thighs with his back to them, still able to feel Steve’s heavy stare. It weighs on him, prickling heat on his skin, and it presses him down and the soldier sinks in. Hands ghost at his hips and he slaps them away one handed, the other guiding Bucky’s cock into him.  
   
He’s so fucking wet that it’s an easy glide. Once he’s seated sideways on Bucky’s lap, he rocks forward, holding the soldier’s thigh as he ruts his prick against the soft skin. He rides the aftershocks of two orgasms, each roll of his hips sending deep little twinges of _yes, good_ —  
   
“Fuck,” he says without meaning to, a little absent.  “Fuck yeah.”  
   
Bucky’s responding moan is muffled, but Steve substitutes it with his own as the man’s throat flutters around his cock. Just watching Tony rock there, listening to the wet sounds of Bucky buried to the hilt— he doubles forward again, a pang of arousal catching him off guard.  
   
Steve would think Tony would be gaining leverage, wedging his knee under the other brunette’s thigh, but he knows these bodies. He’s reaching, slipping his fingers into the bend of Bucky’s knee without a second thought to spread him wide.  
   
 He’s practiced at this, coaxing Bucky to hold his leg in place, Steve’s grip keeping the other high. With him spread like this, they’re just close enough. Effortlessly, Tony slips between the man’s thighs, still full with his cock, and he rolls his hips down into Bucky once.  
   
“Is this green? Good _god_ say it’s green, it’s fucking neon for me—“ He moans, wedging closer to sink deep.  
   
Bucky, whose mouth is full, squeezes at Steve’s thigh once, and the blond answers a choked, “He’s green. I’m green. We’re all green, Tony—”  
   
“Hah,” Tony pants out breathlessly, laughing at Steve’s twitching fingers holding tight to Bucky’s jaw. “So good for us, huh?” His own voice shakes when he says this, pumping his hips and sliding his wet boycunt down the length of him. He feels the warm pulse of arousal, slicking him up wetly.

Steve moans when he agrees, praising, “So good.” He draws back, stripping a hand over his cock slowly, likes the wet smear of saliva on Bucky’s mouth as he drags the head over chapped, swollen lips. He’s never gotten over the sight of Tony taking Bucky like this, the soldier pliant and giving beneath them.

Bucky lets his head fall back on the pillow, watching the wet slide of Tony fucking into him. He fists metal fingers in brown hair, Tony’s hand replacing his to keep him spread, keep him still. Half-present and drifting pleasantly, he pants against Steve’s cockhead, mouthing wet and sloppy kisses there. And then there he laughs, when Tony stills, their rutting almost too much.  
   
“C’mon,” he goads, a little dazed, “want you t’give it to me, know you can fuck me harder than that.”  
   
“Don’t get greedy,” Tony scolds half-heartedly, even while he’s bracing a hand on Bucky’s calf and fucking down against him, spreads him wider, and _takes_ —  
   
He stutters and throbs when Steve’s oil-slick fingers find his hole, pressing deep and stroking Bucky through the wall of delicate skin.    
   
“Think you could take us both?” And the question is spoken low, so deliciously curious. Tony means to ask how the fuck he can even be speaking, but then he’s being filled with warmth and his voice only comes out as a stuttered moan.  
   
 Steve’s gaze flicks down to Bucky’s face, feeling the pulse of him at his fingertips and smiles.  “Guess you won’t have to,” he amends.  
   
Then the good soldier is pressed to his back, all hot skin sticky with the humidity of being so close. “Gonna fill you up,” the words are murmured against his throat. He grits his teeth, presses back.

“Fuck yeah, Cap, _c’mon,_ I want it.”  
   
“He wants it,” Bucky echoes, if not a little smugly. Tony hisses as he’s stretched and two fingers find the mess the brunette left of him, sinking in.  
   
“You’ll get it, I gotcha,” Steve promises. He burns.

His teeth sink into the meat of Tony’s shoulder as he sets a gentle hand on the side of the man’s throat, snapping it with swift discretion. He’s grinning around the blood in his mouth when his hands find Bucky’s face, thumbs sinking into the soft, malleable cavity of his eye sockets.  
   
 And on his word, Steve Rogers delivers.  
   
   
*  
   
   
Steve snaps awake, faltering to find himself standing upright.  
   
“What—“ He gasps, and faintly realizes that he’s out of breath; then the world swims for a moment, pain blooming in his jaw. First he touches a hand to his mouth, confusion only deepening at the sight of blood. It takes him a solid ten seconds to wake fully.  “What’s happening?”  
   
The asset in front of him is crouched low, looking both parts horrified and determined, which looks absolutely ridiculous when he’s dressed in worn sweats, a mess of hickies, and nothing else.  
   
“Steve?” Bucky slips from his stance, coming closer—just—not too close. “You had a bad dream, is all,” and though his voice is heavy with soft reassurance, the tension doesn’t leave his posture.  
   
“Bad dream?” Steve asks thickly, and misses the way Bucky keeps him at arm’s length. He _does_ notice that Tony isn’t in bed.  
   
“They’re getting worse,” the brunette says, more to himself than the other. Then, cautiously,  “You don’t remember anything?”  
   
“No,” Steve’s voice shakes. The night and his dream blur together, but he _couldn't have_ , because they're _fine—_  “No— what’s happening? What... Buck,” he breaks, “Bucky, what’s happening to me?” 

   
The other crowds him, shushes the lost, trembling, _young_ thing back into bed. “It’s all right, Stevie,” he hums, threading his fingers through the other’s hair.

Only moments ago, he’d meant to put those very hands around Steve’s throat and do what he had to. 

He lulls the younger man back to sleep.  
   



	3. Chapter 3

  
In the morning, Steve doesn’t even stop by the Tony’s lab on his way out, and with his distracted mind miles away, doesn’t notice that he’s being followed. He prefers the park, likes the feel of asphalt under his sneakers, and there’s a relief he feels he deserves at the open air.  
   
“Hey,” Sam greets him with a half-hearted wave, panting and sprawled on a park bench with sweat soaking the collar of his shirt. “You’re late. Long night?” He says this with a teasing leer, grinning at Steve.  
   
“You could say that.”  
   
“I never understood it,” Sam laughs, looking away. The sun is peeking through the dense skyline, the first tendrils of light piercing the smog that never seems to lift.  
   
Steve hesitates before he pries, “Understood what?”  
   
“You ‘n them.” The other straightens, leaning in. “I mean, I get it with you and Bucky, sure. Best buds! and all, but Stark too? You’ve got one hell of a type: testy brunettes. With guns,” Sam laughs again, and when he looks away, Steve is almost glad. “Between the two of them, I’m sure it’s a nightmare. But you, you probably just take it with a grain of salt. How do you even fit in with those crazy bastards?”  
   
“They—“ He starts instinctively and finds no words to follow up with. “I don’t know.”  
   
Sam shifts, obviously uncomfortable with what he’s brought to the surface. Steve is the last person who deserves this kind of shit thrown in his face. “What do they do for you, man?”  
   
“Well,” Steve starts and is once again at a loss. He looks over, surprised at his lack of a response.  
   
Sam nods. “But you love them.”  
   
“Of course,” he smiles. “They keep me on my toes.”  
   
“They love you?”  
   
Steve hesitates, but he likes to think he’s sure of the answer. “Yes.”  
   
“How do you know?”  
   
Three times, Steve doubts.  
   
He was always under the impression that once faced with the question, the answer would spill out unbidden. On the contrary, he finds that nothing comes to mind without thinking.  
And that’s exactly what he does.  
   
Lost in his  thoughts, he barely notices Sam pressing a medallion in his hand. “Solidarity,” is all the other man explains. Of course, he doesn’t notice the cool touch of the other’s skin, too cold for a man who’s just finished his morning run.   
   
He’s still thinking of it when Sam bids him goodbye and heads back to the tower. It plagues him as he runs, looping on replay. He considers the necklace, the pendant foreign and so unlike the Catholic visage of long-buried Saints, but slips it over his head. He burns.  
   
  _How do you know_?  
   
   
*  
   
   
As he’s getting back to the tower, the sun is high enough in the sky to melt away his cold-burning anger. It’s a good thing, because the scene that greets him when he gets back has no place for his lingering disappointments.  
   
Bucky’s at the stove, tending to pans which smell distinctly of grease. He’s watching the news, absently stoking at thickening eggs with the same spatula he uses to prod at the bacon and he pulls back instinctively when the grease pops. Tony’s at the table, eyes fixed on his tablet, obviously waiting for the coffee to finish brewing. There are three place settings, one with a glass of juice and the sports section sitting by it.  
   
It’s so _domestic_ that Steve aches. He almost smiles as he sits at the table, but then notices how silent the other two are. It feels as if this calm morning hasn’t been broken by conversation, and the ache deepens. Tony talks in his _sleep_ , but he’s silent _now_ , after everything—?  
   
Then without a word, Bucky sets two cups of coffee on the table. One for him, and one for Tony, black with two spoonfuls of sugar. The man barely glances up, but he sips at the offering gratefully and smiles to himself.  
   
 Steve watches this exchange from behind the newspaper he’s hiding behind, and in his usual fashion, misreads the scene. He isn’t accustomed to this silence, the way these two men are dancing around each other like they’re in a fucking minefield. They remain silent even as Bucky sets plates of food on the table, and Steve sets his jaw as Tony wordlessly snatches a piece of bacon.  
   
He gives up the pretense of reading, feeling a stab of unprecedented irritation. The venom burns.  
   
 He finally slaps the newspaper on the table, fed up, and he grits out, “Would you two, please, just talk to each other?”  
   
“’Bout what?” Tony asks through a mouthful of bacon, grinning sloppily. He doesn’t even bother with wiping his hands clean, and instead licks the grease from his fingertips. Bucky mutters “heathen” under his breath.  
   
No matter how hard it is, Steve answers with his eyes locked on Tony’s. “About us. About the two of you.” The others share a look at that, weighing his words like they never expected this to surface. But how could they not, when they’ve been lingering in those same turbulent waters with the waves threatening to keep them under? When they’ve been waiting for this exodus, the moment they are finally able to breathe easy once again?  
   
“You don’t think this can work out.”  Bucky has decided against playing stupid, because the last thing he wants is for Steve to shut himself away with frustration and worry. They’ll lose him one day, pretending that they aren’t suffocating under his hesitation to touch.  So he rolls his shoulders and settles in for the show.  
   
For all of Steve’s authority, he looks taken aback by the sudden accusation disguised by indifference but still there and just visible. This is his job, to take the broken things and set them straight, patch the glass where it’s cracked.  
 It never occurred to him that he might be the weight bearing down, picking at the chips to see what will happen.  
   
“I don’t think this,” he flounders for a moment, lost. “I don’t think we’re healthy.” Sensing Tony’s impending deflection, he latches on to the opportunity to counteract. “We’ve never had a serious conversation about this, and I think it’s time.”  
   
“Why should we? Why now?” Tony asks. His smile is lousy with insecurity. “Who cares about being healthy? No one’s dead yet, so we must be doing something right, aren’t we?” Steve flexes his fingers, aching to reach across the table, to take this man’s hand and assure him this is not the end.  
   
Instead, he replies with, “I’m saying it’s not enough,” and watches vulnerability flitter over Tony’s face. It’s the defeat in his sinking posture that reads so clearly, dragging him deeper into those inviting waters, that has Steve leaning forward to keep him afloat. Tony, however, rocks back out of instinct, letting his hands fall from the tabletop to fold neatly in his lap.  
   
Bucky, ever observant, senses the self-loathing before it even shows. He wonders if they'll ever be enough for Tony to feel loved.   
   
Sure as all hell, the brunet looks between them, daring, and challenges, “ _I’m_ not enough.” At the sight of Steve ducking his head, desperation locks tight in Tony’s chest. “I get it. I was just warming him up for you till he was ready, that it? You’ve loved him for years, and now you’ve got him again, with just one little obstacle, right?”  
   
The blond looks up, stricken. He can’t remember why he’s started this conversation, but this is the unfolding, taking him with it.  
   
“You aren’t an obstacle, Tony, you’re more than enough, I didn’t mean—“  
   
“You never mean it, do you, Steve? I’ll tell you something: whatever comes out of that boyscout mouth first is generally what you’re thinking,” the words are venomous, spit out bitter and tasteless. Betrayal shows on Tony’s face before he carefully schools it away, and for a moment, he looks as if nothing has happened.  
   
 “This thing between you,” Steve starts. Stops. “Between the three of us. It’s hurting you, and I don’t want to do that. I thought we fixed it, but...”  
   
“Don’t you think I’d say something, Cap?" Tony scoffs.  "Did you want me to start filing reports on everything so you can have it in writing? Or is this a problem because you don’t have enough faith in me that I’d let you know something was wrong?”  
   
“ _That’_ s the problem, Tony!” Steve shouts, and it takes considerable effort for Bucky not to start forward at the anger in his voice. He does, however, shoot the blond a warning look that sufficiently cows him when he sees Tony shrink into himself, the slightest shift of posture.  
   
 “I love you enough to know that you wouldn’t,” Steve continues, voice low. The frustration is obvious in the other's tense shoulders, fingers pressed tight into his palm.  “Enough to know that you keep everything inside and let it eat you up. Both of you do, and it isn’t healthy. I want this to work, Tony, I really do, _but I don’t know if it can_.”  
   
Tony feels sick at those sad eyes set in an earnest face. He’s going to strap weights to his ankles and sink deeper into the familiar warmth of self-loathing and regret, because he’d rather give this up than lose everything.  
   
Bucky glances between these two men, his past and present and future all threatened because of emotions and _Christ_ , sometimes being the Soldier was easier. The silence stretches. He watches Tony sink.  
   
"Spit it out, Steve," he says.  "You're not making this any better." There's a beat between them, daunting.  
   
Then Steve looks uncomfortable as he suggests, not without weeks’ worth of consideration, "I think we need help."   
   
_You need help_ , his father had said. Tony's suddenly twelve again, just a kid with scabbed knees, too-short hair, too-baggy clothes, and he can damn near feel the pull of the healing wounds. The relief of that sharp pain as he picked at them til blood swelled, staining his fingernails red, sitting there on that white couch with that white bitch who claimed she could fix him. _I can help_ , she said.   
   
There is an uncertainty that comes unbidden with childhood, but there were a few things Tony was pretty sure of. He was sure that Howard Stark had resented him. He was sure he would be a better man than his father had ever been. He was damn sure nothing was wrong with him.   
   
"Here's your _help_ ," Tony says. He grits this out like it pains him, standing abruptly from the table in a split-second decision, waves away their combined protests.  Lingering, unsure, he glances at the faces of men he loves so desperately it pains him to walk away, but he ignores the swell in his chest that threatens to drown him.   
   
He does, however, gasp for air when he's out of earshot, and pretends he isn't crying. It's easy once he's stone again, here with all the things that make him _Tony Stark_ , surrounded by his life's work and then some. He will build, and keep building, whether it is his empire or his walls, he will make something from nothing. But it will be made of stone.  
Stone does not breathe, and it does not drown.   
   
When he strides into the lab, he's got half a plan forming in his head to distract himself, maybe screw around with something over at Baxter, check up to see what awful thing Reed's got cooked up now— but he finds himself sitting at his work station, staring down at the bottle of bourbon untouched in his bottom drawer.  
   
Never before has Tony felt the weight of what he has to lose and the regret of gaining it. A meandering life of ambition that's lead him here, debating on himself in terms of the way the others see him, has been degraded into something seemingly fragile and sentimental— trite.   
   
The thirst rears up in the back of his throat like an old friend, calling out of the blue to catch up, and he feels the simultaneous excitement and obligation of seeing a name you haven't thought of in years flash on a screen. It's the new voice in the back of his head that holds him back, Steve's insistence with Bucky's timbre and that awful accent they both slip into when they're only half-aware and sleep-stupid.              
   
 He isn't sure how long he's been staring, if he's been staring at all, and _Christ_ , he's never been so dry. Only a few drops of rain to soothe the desert wouldn't cause a flood, would it? His reasons _not to_ evaporate with a flash of indignant anger, and without a second thought, he finds himself reaching for it.   
   
Just the cool glass on his fingertips has him shriveling in disappointment, slamming the drawer shut and spinning around to face the room. Tony clears his throat and is thankful for the silence that greets him.  
   
"We've got enough time to check on Richards, I think."  
   
*  
   
Blood thrumming, Steve grits his teeth as he makes the usual trip to collect Tony. It’s always him, seeking out their third when he’s run off once again. For once, he wants to act out of adoration and not obligation; just once, he wants to feel like a lover, not their captain. Not their handler. His anger burns, unchecked, and more than anything, he wants to lash out.  
   
His stomach twists at the thought, and he reaches out a hand, steadying himself against the wall. Is this what they do to him? Draw out the cruelty he never thought existed?  
   
 This is how Sam finds him, grasping at the wall like a lifeline, face pale but flushed, feverish. “Hey,” he greets, but slows at the carved stone of Steve’s expression. “What’s up with you, man? You don’t look so hot.”  
   
The blond debates telling him, weighing his words. “We had a fight,” he settles. “I’m on my way to play mediator. Again. I’m hoping Tony hasn’t blown something up.” _Or cracked open a bottle,_ the back of his mind supplies helpfully. Doubt creeps, silent.  
   
Sam shakes his head with a huff of breath. “Wow,” he says. “I wish I could say that’s a surprise, but. You know.”  
   
Unfortunately, Steve does.  
   
“Here, you gotta calm down before you go in. You know how Tony is.” Steve shrugs, because he _really_ does. Sam’s hands move to rest on Steve’s shoulders. There’s a ghosting of pain where teeth like needles had gone deep, deep, deep—  
 “Breathe in,” he instructs, drawing a slow breath, and the other follows suit. “Now just relax, all right? Repeat after me: ‘ _nog orr’e_ ’.”  
   
“Nog orr’e,” Steve echoes awkwardly, filing away yet another proverb he doesn’t understand. Sam’s got a whole book of sayings that pander to suggestive minds. Inspiration, and all. “What does that mean?”  
   
“Doesn’t matter. Some chakra chant I picked up, yknow? No one keeps track of that shit, but it works. Now, _Fyhayak yorr’e.”_  
  
_“_ Fy-fyhayak? Yorre.?”  
   
“Good, now again—nog—  
   
Steve sighs out, nodding. He closes his eyes and takes a breath. “ _Nog orr’e, fyhayak yorr’e,_ ” he murmurs, and as an afterthought, think he’s never heard a language like that. “ _Nog orr’e, fyhayak yorr’e._ ”  
   
The strangeness of the sounds doesn’t matter, but he doesn’t consider his doubt again.  He goes hazy just for a moment, the medallion hanging heavily around his neck. Then all is clear, and surprisingly, he does feel a bit lighter. Different.  
   
Steve nods at the other briefly before walking away without another word, half remembering his intent to see Tony.  
   
Eyes black, Sam watches him disappear around the corner. He smiles when he says, “ _Good._ ”  
   
*  
   
Tony’s elbow-deep under the hood of one of his cars, a fixer-upper he’d plucked from a junkyard. He likes the challenge of fixing from scratch, the pleasantness of distraction that work affords him. His music automatically quiets when the door slides open, and Tony grunts in dissatisfaction.  
   
“Catherine?” Says his father’s voice.

  
A split-second after he turns, Tony feels sick. He’d responded to a name he hasn’t heard in _years_. The queasy feeling goes sharp and hot when he sees _Steve_ standing there. It almost doesn’t register, because _he_ couldn’t have— he _heard_ him—

  
“What did you say?” He knows, but maybe it was his head playing tricks on him again, taunting.

  
“Come on, _kitten_ ,” Steve croons, smiling. “Let’s not fight. I’ll kiss it, make it better.”

  
“Fuck off,” Tony chokes, disappointment giving way to betrayal. He’d _trusted_ him—      He remembered that conversation, the off-handed way he’d told them. His nonchalance surrounding the subject, however, doesn’t give either of them the fucking _right—_ “How dare you?”

  
“What?” Steve’s face falls in mock-innocence. “All I did was come to see you—“  
   
“Get the fuck out,” Tony snaps.  
   
The blond hums, looking around the lab as if he’s never stepped foot in it before. Everything here looks so _fun_. “Catherine Stark. The prodigal _son_ , the one who’d save it all. Howard spent a pretty penny to get you far, didn’t he? What would your parents think of you now?”  
   
Tony’s face flushes, and when he tells Steve to clear off, his voice shakes. Steve barrels on, blue eyes shining with mirth.  
   
“Did you think you deserved pity, Tony? Did you think you could step into the suit and everyone would forget about what you were; the war profiteer, designing weapons to be better, faster, _crueler?_ How many people were razed to the ground like animals by weapons bearing your name _?_ ”  
   
“I stopped,” the other insists, a bit weakly and taken aback.  
   
“Only because you were threatened with your own destruction. Saw your end and got a lucky second chance, didn’t you?  You were in front of the barrel of that gun with Stark Industries emblazoned on the muzzle, all that accountability staring you right in the face. It’s always only ever been about you, Stark. Saving people doesn’t make you _good_ , it just makes you a monster with morals, choking on a smoking gun.”   
   
Tony clenches his jaw, diverts his eyes in the shameful fashion with which he’s become an expert. Christ, if anyone were watching, they’d never expect Captain America to be treating a teammate like this, much less the man he shares a bed with.   
But Tony, _Tony_ knows it’s been coming, knew the end was nigh. He’d been expecting it, but he never really convinced himself.  
The small cracks in his foundations have widened, but it’s darkness bleeding through instead of light.  
   
Steve’s smile looks more like a sneer on his face, and he must have been satisfied, because when Tony, resolve weakened, once again tells him to leave, he goes.  
   
*  
   
“Have you talked to Stark?” Bucky asks later that afternoon, sparring with Steve. The man laughs and dodges a jab.  
   
“Nah, he’s been brooding for weeks, hasn’t he?”  
   
“Yeah,” Bucky says slowly, as though Steve needs help catching on. “Yes, he has.”  
   
Steve shrugs, hands unfurling from fists, but he keeps his stance. The other falters, waiting.  
   
“What?”  
   
Bucky scoffs in disbelief. “What the hell do you mean, _what_ , Steve? Have you talked to him?”  
   
“Yeah,” Steve shrugs again, circling around him on the mat. He sounds disinterested, and it strikes wrong. “I went down after the fight. He told me to get out, so I left him alone.”  
   
Bucky can’t help himself from asking incredulously, “That’s it?”  
   
“What?”  
   
“He said ‘get out’ and you just… did?”  
   
“Yeah.” The blond laughs and Bucky irritably slaps away his right hook. “Hey now, he’s been dragging us down for a while, so I figured I’d let him cool off. We don’t need him, right? Not with that attitude.”  
   
It looks too easy, this nonchalance.  
   
“Steve,” Bucky admonishes in a tone he’d never had to take with this man before. As far as he can remember, really. “Steve, what the _fuck_?”  
   
“C’mon Buck. You know how he is, always refusing our help unless it’s in bed,” the other teases. Then, offhanded, “It’s not like it’s safe for him to be with us, anyway. You know, since we’re not really human.”  
   
When the soldier doesn’t respond, Steve smiles at him and motions at Bucky’s arm. “Some a little less than others?”  
   
Bucky frowns, looking over the man who looks like Steve Rogers, but doesn’t sound anything like him. He’s gotten better at seeing them as equals, and not as his handlers. The things he files away about them are out of fascination and curiosity and he _knows_ this is nothing like Steve. Even Tony, for all his tantrums and defensive snark, is acting as expected.  
   
Steve suddenly drops away from him, demeanor changing. Bucky expects him to apologize, but the other man simply asks, bored, “Are we training or not?”  
   
What the fuck.  “Not.”  
   
“We’ll finish up later then. Get the exercise in the old-fashioned way,” Steve’s face melts into something familiar, and though he’s let the other man take him in this room, the last thing Bucky wants is Steve’s hands on him. Or his mouth, because that smile is twisting his stomach up something ugly. So he takes another step back, and it strikes him that he won’t turn his back to Steve Rogers, of all people.  
   
He stands there a few moments, even after Steve’s brushed past him nonchalantly without another word, and tries to calm his rising worry. “ _What the fuck_ ,” he mutters to an empty room.  
   
“That was weird, right?” Clint chirps from the rafters. He frowns when Bucky flips him the bird. 


	4. Chapter 4

  
When he can’t sleep, Bucky’s taken to sitting at the kitchen bar, sharpening an extensive shiver of knives.  There are some nights when he just can’t lay in that bed, next to them, and lately, the mere thought of it makes his skin crawl. With just Steve there alone, he never sleeps, because he waits all night that shift in the man’s breathing, but it _never comes_.  
   
He catches himself staring at the elevator doors, so he tears his eyes away to test the blade on his fingertip. Not expecting Tony to come through those doors, and yet still waiting, he licks away the beads of blood on his skin as he waits. He picks up another knife.  
   
To his surprise, his partner does appear, but not the one he expects. Steve breezes by him without a glance, hood pulled over that shock of blonde hair, eyes downcast.   
   
Without another thought, the brunette slips from his perch to follow the man. It doesn’t take more than the first twenty minutes of trailing him before he’s struck by the strong regret he ever met this punk ass kid. will this kid ever stop getting him into trouble?  
   
“Steve,” he calls out, slowing at the mouth of the alley.  There’s a grunt, the sound of meat hitting meat. “Steve,” he says again when he’s rushing the man, because he won’t stop. Catching one fist raised to strike, Bucky’s hand slips a bit in the blood and he grimaces, even as Steve relaxes at his touch.  
   
He asks, “What happened?” though it’s very clear. The man on the ground is unconscious, but breathing. “Who is that? What…”  
   
The blond regards him indifferently, showing no reaction to any of Bucky’s questions.  
   
“Let’s go home,” Steve finally responds, letting the other guide him. He feels a stirring in him, a longing to be back in the cage. There are glimpses of the urge to hide himself away. He throws one careless glance at the man, feels the slick blood on his hands, and regards him indifferently.  
   
   
In the bright lights of the tower, the glisten of blood on Steve’s hoodie, and his hands, is easily identifiable. The man doesn’t protest as he is lead to the bathroom on their floor, moving at the pace he’s guided into.    
   
“Clean yourself up, all right? I’ll get some clothes.” Steve nods, slow. Sluggish.  
   
Once he shuts the bathroom door, Bucky’s raising his phone to his ear, met with a dull tone each time he tries to call Tony. He pockets the device after three attempts, angry but unsurprised, and finds clothes for Steve to change into. Briefly, he wonders what they should do with the ones he’s wearing.  
   
Clothing draped over his arm, the man slows to a stop outside of the bathroom door; Bucky first hears the low mumbling, an insistent, one-sided argument. Steve’s been talking to himself more often, but what worries him is the length of the pauses where responses would go.  
   
“I won’t fucking do it,” he hears clearly. Then comes the unmistakable sound of crunching glass, and he’s by the man’s side in an instant, bathroom door hanging from one hinge.  
   
“Steve,” he means to say, but the man is already looking at him. His fever-bright eyes set in a gaunt, exhausted face— Bucky barely recognizes him.  
   
Then that’s an afterthought, because in the cracked mirror, Steve’s reflection is still staring at the blond, eyes fixed on the pulse point under his jaw. The blond, still looking so clearly right at him, is saying something that doesn’t quite match up with the reflection’s mouth—  
   
“What?” Bucky slurs, world tilting uneasily around him. _Is this real?_ He means to ask. _I’m dreaming._ He means to insist. “Steve—“ he whispers.   
   
“She couldn’t have been more than eight,” the man’s voice tunes in real slow. “And you just snapped her neck like it was nothing. Did she cry for her mother, when she woke up and saw you in her room?”  
   
He’d never had anyone sense his presence, but he’d heard the shift in breathing go from slumber to waking—  
   
“They couldn’t take that one from you, no matter how bad you wanted them to, could they? Just one in God knows how many, but that one really sticks with you—”  
   
“ _Mummy_ ,” she’d sobbed, just a scared little girl, and he couldn’t risk her crying out a second time.  
   
“Steve,” Bucky says faintly, stomach going lead when the reflection snaps to look his way. It smiles something sick and too-wide, teeth stained with blood. _Killer_ , it’s been saying. _Murderer._    
   
“Oh, fuck,” he hears from his right, turning just in time to catch the blonde as the man staggers. The flow of blood coming from Steve’s nose is alarmingly the darkest shade of red he’s ever seen. He feels hazy, out of control. It makes his stomach turn, even as he rips down a towel and presses it to Steve’s face.  
   
“I broke the mirror,” The blond says, dazed. He doesn’t mention what happened, the things he said, barely registers that he’s bleeding. Bucky smiles down at him, though it feels thin.  
   
“It’s okay, kid. How many did I break when you first brought me here?”  
   
“Three,” Steve answers without missing a beat, and even though he’s bleeding like a stuck pig, manages to sound chastising.  
   
Bucky gives a watery laugh at the lament. “See? One don’t sound so bad.”  
   
Steve stops bleeding rather quickly, but he’s slow-moving and half-out of it by the time it stops. Bucky wipes the blood from Steve’s face, and helps him out of the stained, ruined shirt. There are bruises, ones he’s sure he didn’t make, in places he’s sure he hasn’t touched in days.  
   
“Are you… are you okay?” He has to ask, after swallowing the lump in his throat.   
   
“Tired,” Steve replies, distant. “I feel it everywhere.”  
   
For a moment, Bucky is at a loss. “You should shower. Get… get cleaned up right.” He watches Steve nod at this, but ends up guiding the man to the shower regardless.  
   
_“_ I’m burning,” Steve says in a small, shaken voice. He sounds far away, shivering even under the hot spray of the shower.  
   
Bucky glances down at the blond sinking into a sitting position, and instinctively moves to adjust the temperature. Without warning, Steve’s fingers curl tight around his wrist, and _that_ particular instinct in his gut isn’t his own ( _not anymore_ ).  
   
“Hey now—“ Bucky says with the fleeting intent to explain and soothe. He’s been experiencing lag on some of his sensors, sure, and maybe temperature is one of them. But Steve has always run hot, he can’t be so—  
   
“Cold,” the blonde says, and with a shiver, repeats himself. “Cold.”   
   
He looks so young, wearing exhaustion in the worst ways, and Bucky doesn’t have it in him to remove him from this one comfort. So he sits helplessly, watching Steve’s skin turn red from water hot enough to scald, holding a cold hand that never seems to warm.  
   
Not once does he again look at the mirror.  
   
   
*  
   
“Hey uh,” Tony snaps at the air, absently. “You, I need the— thing,” he finishes stupidly. One hand is buried in the guts of the engine above him, the other stretched out and waiting.  
He doesn’t hear the footsteps approaching, the sound lost in the tattoo of his loud music, but he glances over in surprise when a warm hand presses a wrench into his palm.   
   
“Thanks,” he says shortly, turning back to the task at hand, which has lost his interest.  
   
 Bucky manages a tight smile, sitting against the car. He can see Tony avoiding him without looking, and he drums his fingers on his knee. The silence stretches between them, another uncomfortable stand off to add to the books.  
   
“Still working, huh?” He asks when he can’t stand the distance.  
   
“Clearly.”  
   
Well, he didn’t expect much. “You’ve been here for a while.”  
   
“Work takes time. Got a lot to do,” and this time, the coldness is damn near tangible.  
   
“Yeah,” Bucky agrees, “Avoiding us takes a lot of effort. Waste of time, trying to hide from a spy.” Tony nearly cracks a smile at that, and has to fight it away.  
   
“Especially Steve. Persistent bastard ain’t he?” the other continues, voice going strange. “Say, have you… have you seen him lately?” He tries not to sound like he knows the answer. He doesn’t do a good job of it.  
   
Though he asks delicately, Bucky can feel the tension from the other and internally grimaces.   
   
Weeks of sleepless nights have left Tony drifting through his days disoriented, unable to function at a normal capacity. It’s almost like drinking again, starting and ending damn near every other day worshipping the porcelain Goddess (because only a woman could be so cruel).  
   
And he works. He busies away the sobriety, worrying is his body’s on the edge of quitting or just going through withdrawal.  
It’s a good time.  
   
 “Before you ask, I don’t want to talk about it.” He works himself sick thinking of how Steve Rogers sees him now.  
   
“I wasn’t going to.”  
   
Tony pauses, though he doesn’t stop moving. “Boyfriend of the year,” he snips back without any real heat, and instead, lets relief flood his tense, aching frame. He works to buy more time.  
   
Bucky fights rolling his eyes, even if Tony can’t see.  
   
Hoping Tony would present some clarification, he had come here despite knowing it would be difficult to coax him into giving a shit. Fuck, _anything_. Stupidly, he had expected him to care, instead of burying it away behind all that stone.  
   
“He goes out when he can’t sleep,” Bucky explains, not mentioning how often Steve does not, in fact, sleep anymore. Tony should know. With a shock, he realizes how alone he is in this.  
   
“What, you want me to follow him?”  
   
“I already have,” comes the indignant reply. If not for the concern of Steve’s well-being, he’d be asking where all that genius has gone and disappeared off to. “He beats up shady guys in back alleys, dressed in just… some jeans and sweatshirt. He doesn’t suit up or nothin’ close to it. Leaves the drugs, the money, guns—”  
   
“I’m not following.” Tony slides out from under the car, and fixing him with a matter-of-fact look, says, “He’s a superhero, James. That’s kind of his thing. Out of all of us, Steve being the one to go vigilante isn’t surprising—“  
   
“It’s _weird_ and you fuckin’ know it, Tony, He isn’t saving people, he’s just going out lookin’ for a fight.” Bucky shakes his head, because he never again wants to hear that thick, dull smack of someone’s skull against Steve’s fist. Not like that. “Fucks ‘em up and just… leaves ‘em in the dirt.”  
   
Steve’s face in the mirror, mouthing those words— he almost mentions it, but the details trip him up. How do you begin explaining something like that?  
   
“He hasn’t… been acting like himself.” Bucky settles for, knowing that doesn’t begin to cover it.  
   
“You think?” Tony only _sounds_ like he’s asking and he still does a poor job of it. “What did he do, call you a monster too? Oh no,” the man shakes his head with that awful smile, “Never you, right?”  
   
The other frowns. Budding insecurity blossoms at mentions of the past, and Tony’s growing a fucking garden. Steve hasn’t been weeding. He’s been planting seeds.  “What did he say to you?”  
   
“It doesn’t matter,” Tony works hard to shut him out.  “I told you, I don’t want to talk about it. I’ve got work to do, so if you could just run along back to Spangles—“  
   
“Look, I don’t know what happened between you two, and I don’t care. If you want to keep it between to the two of ya, then go ahead and leave me out of it, sure. But something is _seriously_ wrong here, Tony,” Bucky presses, heated.  
   
“If you don’t care, then why are you here?”  
   
There’s a tight ball of frustration that gears up an exasperated sound, “I didn’t—“  
   
“Your words. Y’know, you and Steve both have that problem, saying shit you don’t mean, right?” Y _ou’re being petty_ , he thinks, and presses on, “Now get the fuck out of here before I kick you out of my building.”  
   
“Thought it was ours,” Bucky snaps without missing a beat, but unlike some, knows when to quit, and promptly does as Tony requests. He leaves.     
   
   
If Tony watches the surveillance looking for Cap that night, he tells himself that it’s strictly professional interest. A teammate’s well-being. Bucky doesn’t follow that night, or the next.  
   
On the third night, Tony sits at his desk with a cup of coffee that he won’t drink. Like the others, it will sit cold and untouched; the smell is a comfort, but the taste leaves his stomach turning.  
   
“All right, old boy, show me where Steve is.”  
   
“Captain Rogers is currently exiting the building, sir,” and Tony’s graced with the image of said man walking out of the elevators. Tony doesn’t like this dark outfit he wears, dressed in blacks with his hood pulled up. It’s how he pictures the other now, when he’s called to memory.  
   
 Steve stops just before leaving, pausing as if to listen. He then looks up into the camera, staring like he’s trying to descry the man sitting on the other side. Like he could reach up and touch him.  
   
Tony stares back, stomach tight. Steve knows he’s watching— not will, not eventually, but right now. Nervously, he takes a sip of his coffee. And when the blond winks, lips pursing in a mockery of a kiss, his stomach roils. He barely makes it to the trashcan in time.  
   
From his place on the floor, Tony can see Steve raise a hand as if to say, “Goodbye,” or, “I’m here,” but somewhere deep, he knows it to be “I will see you again.”  
   
Then his vision swims, droplets of red spattering the floor; he swallows instinctively, iron replacing the sick, bitter taste of bile. Tony raises his own hand, but to his face, and upon the sight of blood, promptly loses consciousness.  
   
*  
   
Morning comes, and JARVIS politely scolds him by saying “ _Saturday_ morning” when he asks what time it is. He’s slept for a solid two days, then. He doesn’t ask who brought him to his bedroom, or who left the glass of water on the night stand.  
   
 And today, of all days, Tony decides he’s going to choose himself.  
He heaves his aching body from the tangle of sweat-soaked sheets, and clenches his jaw against the phantom throbbing in his mouth, feeling like his teeth are rooted into his gums by thorns. The man he sees in the mirror is sallow, drawn thin by withdrawal and a heartache to which he would never admit.  
   
“Look at you now, Stark,” he mutters to himself, close enough for his breath to fog the glass.  
   
He builds his wall a little higher, and it makes him sick, turning away to turn on the shower. The thirst is becoming unbearable by the minute, day, week— his yearning to soothe away the ache of loneliness settles too comfortably in his bones.  
He’s done this before, detoxed his way into retoxing. It’s a vicious cycle he almost doesn’t want to break, content to sink into the amber-tinted wells of familiar, blessed oblivion.  
   
_No more feeling sorry for yourself,_ Tony thinks to himself under the cold spray of the water. He lets it clear his head and convince him to press on.  
   
By the time he makes it to the ground floor, he’s decided on maybe trying an AA meeting. Dress up like the peasants, maybe, slip into the back of the room and eat stale donuts while listening to some poor devil’s sob story, feel good about how he hasn’t completely ruined his life, head home, and sleep for a week.  
   
For once, he’d like his plans to play out the way he imagines. Of course, nothing can go as planned. He is Tony Stark, after all.  
   
James Barnes is waiting for him once the elevator doors slide open. Tony looks up from his phone, peering at the man over the frame of his sunglasses, takes in the disheveled appearance and revels in spitefulness.  
He’s clearly been waiting for Tony to emerge from his high tower. There’s a half-empty cup of coffee by his side, and bags under his eyes. The sweats he wears are worn, a size too big for his frame— he smells like he’s been wearing Steve’s clothes for days.  
   
“He’s gone,” Bucky says.  
   
Tony sets a stone upon his wall and gleefully spreads the mortar. Glancing around in put-on confusion, he points at his own chest and asks, “Talking to me?” His criticism is thick in only three words.  
   
“Who the hell else—“  
   
 “Relationship trouble should stay in the relationship,” he continues, bitter with sobriety, “and little ol’ me isn’t part of that. Your star-spangled boyfriend isn’t my problem anymore, and neither are you, so you’ll have to excuse me when I say, _I don’t care_ , and follow up with _fuck off_.” He fakes to the left before walking around Bucky, feigning interest in his phone again, but metal fingers close around his wrist in a vice-like grip.  
   
“This ain’t the time for your pity party,” the other growls lowly, advancing on the man who stands his ground and regards him with tired indifference. “You _will_ help me find him. You ‘n I know damn well that you care, so stop playing this ‘Tony Stark doesn’t have a heart’ bullshit."  There’s a wall around it. It towers above him.  
   
“Oh, I see.” It’s ugly, but Tony can’t help but smile when he asks, “So Spangles left you, huh?”   
   
“Not like you did,” Bucky shoots back.  
   
The hate bleeds from Tony and he suddenly wants to press his face against Bucky’s shoulder, beg for forgiveness, sink to his knees and repent. Does choosing himself mean he can’t have them?  
The other visibly deflates as well, closing his eyes briefly.  
   
 “I’m sorry. You had every right to be angry, Tony, but this is— When I say he’s gone, I don’t mean he’s up ‘n walked out on us.” A beat. “Me. He’s just fuckin’ gone. No note, no trace. I don’t—” _trust myself to go alone_.  
   
Fingers brush against the back of his neck, over his shoulder. It stays there, a heavy weight that anchors him though he wants to rise like the heat of his anger. He gives in with a sigh.  “You want my help?”  
   
Bucky shifts. “Are you offering?”  
   
“Are you asking?”  
   
The light dims in Bucky’s eyes and the man looks away. They know how deep the spite can go, how far they will let their unforgiving cruelty run before pulling it back, always with little to no regard for consequences.  
   
Tony feels a surge of possessiveness, an irrational anger at Steve for leaving them incomplete. He moves into Bucky’s space, lets him through the cracks in his wall that he had truthfully, done a shitty job of building. The other’s mouth tastes like stale coffee and the kiss is listless, just a comfort. He pulls back, feeling dizzy, and hides it as well as he knows how.  
   
“Of course I’m gonna help you find Captain America. What kind of superhero would I be if I left a team member—or a boyfriend, even— to the devices of his arch-nemesis? We should start there, probably, he seems to have a pattern when it comes to Hydra. AA can wait. Look, we’ll track his last movements and start searching for—“ Tony trails off, reading no change in the demeanor of the other man.  “Earth to James. Are you listening?”  
   
“You drinkin’ again?” Bucky suddenly accuses (and trusts and hopes).  
   
Tony stiffens. “You think I would?”  
   
“No…” the other deflates. “But I’ve been wrong about you before. Not everything worked out the way we wanted, huh?”  He relaxes at the slow shake of Tony’s head.  
   
“I just… I need help,” the man admits. He feels the weight. “But don’t worry, I haven’t touched a drop. I’m not so toxic that I can’t see my own self-destruction. Genius, remember? It’s better this way.”  
   
Bucky seems to accept this, trusting one of the men he loves so deeply it might destroy him. Regardless of the desire for spite, the other cups his face and strokes his fingertips over the days-old dusting of a beard.  
   
“I stopped drinking, and I’m not gonna start again. Nothing can screw that up… not even this, okay? I might not be great when I’m sober, but you’re not great when you’re sleep deprived and worried. For once, and probably just this once, we’re gonna be the ones saving him. Is this pep talk working? It’s half working for me—“  
One of these days, the yearning will no longer take hold of him and the thought of giving in to the thirst won’t even cross his mind.  
   
Only, a week later, Tony’s sitting in the bathroom, biting his nails to the quick. And with Steve missing, with Bucky near-catatonic in the other room, with the pregnancy test sitting on the counter beside him, he fights the urge to drink. 


	5. Chapter 5

  
“We need to talk,” Bucky says from the doorway.   
    
Tony lifts his head from where he’d been resting it on his forearm, propped up on porcelain. Habit has “ _promise_ , _it isn’t the booze_ ” ghosting on the tip of his tongue.   
    
He’s been sitting on the bathroom floor for the better part of an hour, his resolve weakened by waves of nausea that seem worse today than ever before. Just when he thinks he’s got his stomach under control, James fucking Barnes comes in to ruin his steady mantra of _it’s okay, nothing to worry about, it’s okay_.   
    
He’d always felt that inspirational quotes were simply empty euphemisms and that he was too clever, too smart to be lead astray by whimsical notions like hope. Positive thinking, hah— no one’s better than Tony Stark when it comes to fooling Tony Stark, but even he, for all he’s worth, is a chump at it. He groans at this, vexed by lost progress and churlish from the nonstop rocking he feels.   
    
 Bucky makes an aborted movement toward him, itching to be at the other’s side, but he’s only waved away. Swallowing the urge mother-hen Tony into a fit, the man crosses his arms over his chest in an attempt to keep his hands to himself.   
    
 “There’s a cup of that ginger tea I bought but you haven’t been drinkin’,” he offers at the obvious signs of distress, trying for nonchalant and falling short. Then he pauses. “Heard it helps with the morning sickness.”   
    
Worry slips her cold fingers around Tony’s stomach, squeezing tightly, and his vision swims. Tony moans morosely in response, spitting into the bowl.   
    
 He hadn’t said a word, but Bucky knew. Steve would have known, too, if he were here. Maybe he did. Maybe he isn’t _missing_.   
    
He doubts himself for a moment, the choices he’s made. Is it so easy for them to read him? And most importantly, has he let them? Heaving himself standing, Tony rinses the sour taste from his mouth and finds it lingering on the back of his throat.     
    
His insides roil in protest with each movement, and the tea awaiting him is a welcome balm to his frayed edges. Bucky watches him from across the table, sitting silent and resolute as Tony holds onto his mug like a lifeline. The judgment is damn near tangible, and Tony suddenly misses Steve so fiercely his insides burn with it.   
    
The scent of ginger alone is settling his stomach, the spice soothing away the worst of his rolling belly. It could be the morning sickness, but he’s sure it’s the impending argument for which he has no energy searing away at his resolve.   
    
Predictably, Bucky starts with, “You should have said something.”     
    
“That would have been great,” Tony immediately deadpans. “I was waiting for a time you weren’t sitting around all locked up in your head. I’m sorry— should I have shaken you awake, _babe_?” Almost like a switch, Tony’s ready to cut deep.   
    
“‘James,” he says  in a vicious imitation the mid-Atlantic accent, “My dear, do you know what year it is, and oh, you’ve got me in the family way, ya mook; oh, my, just _what_ to do about this Steve thing, cause _gee whiz_ he’s been gone a while!’?”   
    
His heart is pounding anxiously at his own sarcasm, but he indulges the voice in the back of his head that says, cut deeper, and his stomach bottoms out even as he says the words. “Fuck off. I like my eye sockets intact, thanks.”   
    
_Jesus_ , he startles, so surprised at himself that his breath catches, _how far can you sink?_   
    
The brunette considers him silently, ignoring the jab. Pointing out the sharp edges between them only leaves cuts flowing and open, bleeding out and leaving them dry. His mouth goes tight for a moment, and the table is suddenly more interesting than the slack-jawed look Tony’s wearing.   
    
“It was my choice when to tell you,” Tony says evenly. “And I chose to wait for Steve, it isn’t fair to him to leave him out. Trust me, I know how it feels.” He gives a sardonic smile.     
    
“We didn’t leave you out, _you_ left—“   
    
“You wanted me to leave!”   
    
“That’s not _true_ , Tony, and you fucking know it! You wanted to go off and brood, pout about how you’re all fucked up and not enough, like we ain’t feeling the same fucking way! He wanted us to talk, not fight, but not Tony Stark! _No_ , everything’s gotta be a fuckin’ fight with you, does’n it? And once you start, you can’t stop!   
God, you two are fucking perfect for each other, you know that? You’re exactly the fucking same, so quick to fight, and for what?” Bucky deflates then, and his brow darkens, furrowed. “Always a fight with the two of you. It never stops. And neither of you, you never fucking back down.”   
    
After a beat, he then asks, glancing at the other with bitter expectation, “Would you have told us at all?”   
    
Though Tony expects a flare of anger at that, he only feels a deepening in his self-reproach, disappointment swelling to fill the places between his ribs. It isn’t _practical_. He questions himself, wonders if he could have said no to the both of them, knowing he could easily avoid that with the withholding of certain truths.   
    
He’s still asking himself the same question, ( _would you?),_ when Bucky shifts, doing that little move forward as if he had something to say, and then thought better of it. His eyes are downcast, unable to meet Tony’s own. He’s gotten his answer.   
    
“Sir, Sergeant Barnes. Captain Rogers appears to be entering the premises,” The AI’s voice cuts through their argument, their words drying up. “Should I notify Director Fury?”   
    
Bucky’s already crossing the floor before Tony can stand from the table, muttering, “That’s the last fucking person I’d like you to notify.”   
    
“Shall I alert the Avengers?”   
    
“J, we don’t need anyone to hear how bad Rogers is about to get it.” Tony’s sure that Bucky has a few choice words for the man they’ve been searching for, because he sure as hell does.   
    
“Are you sure you wouldn’t mind a bit more assistance?” JARVIS hints.   
    
As he’s joining Bucky in the elevator, his phone pings impatiently and at JARVIS’s insistence, he pulls it from his pocket.   
    
What he sees there has him grasping at Bucky’s wrist, and the other barely looks over, tense with a mix of bereft anger and sullen hope. For a moment, both men forget they’d been snarling at each other like two tomcats in a back alley.   
    
The surveillance shows Steve stalking right into Avengers tower, his face strangely blank and shirt looking damp with— Tony’s heart stutters and seems to stop. “James, he’s covered in blood. It isn’t his,” he manages out in a croak. “Jamie, I don’t think…”   
    
“Sir, I find it imperative to inform you that Captain Rogers has gained access—“ JARVIS cuts out when the power does, the elevator going dark when it stops nearly ten floors from the lobby.  The emergency lights flicker on in the darkness, and in the dim lighting, the two men share a look.   
    
“No one stopped him?”   
    
“Yeah, right,” Bucky scoffs. “Would you stop Captain America?”  He slips a knife from its holster and places it between his teeth, reaching for the emergency hatch.      
    
Tony tightens his grip on the other’s wrist, teeth gritted as he says, “Don’t you dare leave me now.”    
    
Something changes in Bucky, the soldier surfacing, and he wrenches away, feature set hard and cold. The words are heavy, even before he speaks them, and Tony wonders how the hell this happened.   
    
“Stay here.”   
    
“Like hell!” Desperate fingers clasp metal again, begging. “If he doesn’t recognize you, he’ll kill you, James, but you won’t kill him... I know you can’t,” Tony rushes out hotly, panicked. “He won’t know it’s you, and he’ll fucking kill you. Then he’ll come for me, and I won’t be able to do it either. He’ll kill Sam, and Clint, and Natasha, and whoever’s left, and he will not stop—“   
    
Bucky grasps his face hard to cut off his panicked words, expression going soft. “That’s not going to happen,” he insists, catching Tony’s mouth with his for a brief, but insistent kiss. It’s a promise that he threatens to break. “All right. I’ll go after Steve. You suit up, and then get the others. I can’t take him alone, but I can distract him. Got it? Tony?”   
    
When the other does not answer, Bucky roughly shakes him out of it. “ _Get the suit_ , Tony. You do not fight without that fuckin’ thing, you understand? I need you to tell me you understand.”   
    
The haze clears. This is just another mission, this is what they do. It’s who they are.   
    
 “Suit. No fighting. I gotcha,” Tony steels himself against the doors, watching the soldier pull himself from the car. Something moves in his lower belly and he tries not to think about it. “Don’t hurt him too bad.”   
    
The man falters just for a moment, because this feels like everything he’s been trying to avoid. It feels like the end.   
    
“I’ll try,” he says.   
    
Then, into the shadows, the asset disappears.   
    
*   
    
Tony opens the doors enough to climb out, and the moment that he emerges in the darkness, he knows it has been waiting for him.   
    
Glass from the busted emergency lights crunch underfoot, and shaking fingers find the circlet around his wrist. Fear strikes him in a way he’s hasn’t felt in years when it doesn’t light up— when his salvation does not come to his aid.   
    
It comes in a flood of _oh Christ no_ and _how could we have been so stupid_? Weaken the body, devour the soul. The skilled predator seeks the weakest, separates its prey from the group that will protect it; only then can it bring down a herd from within, and nothing survives in small numbers. _This is it._   
    
There’s no way in hell he could beat Captain fucking America in hand-to-hand. He’s weaponless, but he refuses to be weak, and so he does the second thing at which he’s best. He talks.   
    
 “All right, Stevie,” Tony says as he back-steps towards the elevator doors. He uses the placating tone he’s learned from the man himself. “Let’s be rational about this. You’re not gonna hurt me. We both know you’re in there somewhere.”   
    
“Do we?” Comes Steve’s retort, soft-spoken. Tony sighs in relief— at least he’s verbal.   
    
“Yeah, babe, of course,” he coaxes. “We can help you fight. You don’t have to do this.”   
    
“But I do.” That’s forced out through gritted teeth.   
    
“If you got through to the Winter Soldier purely by the strength of your gay love for each other,” Tony says lightly, “I’m sure we can do something to reverse whatever they did to your grapefruit, all right? Even if they cleaned you out, you’re still Captain America, Steve, you’re—“   
    
“No one cleaned out my grapefruit,” says a voice from Tony’s right, much closer than before. “I’m all here, Tony. She just let me out, is that so hard to believe? That I have to do this, maybe because _how bad_ I want to?”   
    
 “Because, well…that’s not…. that’s not you, Steve—“ He doesn’t register moving, but Tony takes an instinctive step back.   
    
Something laughs with Steve’s voice, but it’s wrong, sour. “How would you know? You think you love me, Tony? Is that what you’re about to say? ‘This isn’t you, Stevie,’” it taunts. “’ _Captain America is better than this, you can fight it!_ ’ News flash,” it spits in bitter, unconcealed rage, “you don’t fucking know me. Even that empty fucking thing wearing _Sergeant Barnes’s_ face don’t know me. Everything you _do_ know, all that you think you love, was manufactured in a lab and stuffed full with the American disease of patriotism.   
But I know _you_ , Tony Stark.”   
    
The voice is sweet and ruined with it.     
    
“I know about your _daddy_ issues and how you’re just like him, nothing but a drunk, _cruel_ man-child. I know you’re a cancer, latching on, eating all of us alive. It’s why I took out your suits— I can have you just the way you are, so I can eat you alive without unwrapping you first. And when I kill your friends, it will be a fair fight without you holding them back.” A breath hitches with unabridged enthusiasm. “I’m going to burn everything you love, Tony. I want you to die knowing that.”   
    
Staring in the direction of the voice, Tony’s sight adjusts to the darkness. There, leaning against the wall, shrouded in black and the falsity of nonchalance, is the shape of a soldier with nothing to lose.   
    
There is no difference in appearance, but in that instant, Tony knows the thing wearing Steve Rogers _is_ _not Steve_.   
    
The dead eyes turn to him, a predator cornering its prey with the promise of blood. There is no glimmer of recognition in that dark gaze, and desperation warps his heart into a sharp, throbbing pain in his throat as Tony makes a break for the exit.   
A body slams his against the door, head bouncing brutally off the glass, and his vision goes dark for a few, and far too many, moments.   
    
_Steve’s mouth is pressed to his shoulder, lazy in his search for the marks they’ve left on yielding skin. He keens into the touch, quietly reveling in the warmth of breath on his spine._   
  
_“Everything’s fine now,” the blond soothes gently, and there is a comforting weight to his words. “It’s all right, sweetheart, I gotcha now. I_   
    
 “Gotcha!”  It roars gleefully. Hands reach out of the darkness, grasping for him. A grinning, aching maw awaits the taste of blood. The threat of its proximity sputters Tony into half-consciousness, blindly rolling away from the thing that nearly writhes with delight at the fear in his disoriented moans. He finds his footing and stumbles through his escape.   
    
“Where ya goin’, Tony?” it sings, following lazily with all the time in the world. “We haven’t finished yet.”   
    
Wiping at the blood and stumbling half-blind, Tony grasps at the wall and clings to the lifeline it provides. If he can just find his way, if his head would fucking clear—   
    
_A corner? A fucking corner, you’ve literally backed yourself into a corner is this a joke how in the hell do you call yourself a superhero not even what kind of genius backs himself into a corner in the tower you fucking built you absolute fuckwad i hope they play zeppelin at your funeral even if you don’t deserve it but you’ll deserve this Christ_ but Cap doesn’t _—_   
    
He jerks back as the other slowly approaches, stomach cramping in fear as a hand reaches for him. Close enough for the arc reactor to light its face, it shows no expression as fingers brush the metal casing in Tony’s chest. Then wonder crosses the familiar features, and the sick grin reappears, and _this is how it ends._   
    
“You know,” not-Steve marvels with a contemplative grin, “you really should make this harder to steal.” Its fingertips stroke over the fabric of the worn shirt like a lover would, like Steve’s done so many times before, and Tony fights the swell of disgust that rises. Fingers tap against the metal fondly.   
    
“I’ve been working on that,” Tony grits, clumsily trying to push the other away, and failing. The blond hums agreeably as it saws the knife through the shirt, easily ripping the fabric away.   
    
Suddenly, Tony’s in the dark, pain blooming in his chest and metal burning in his mouth. If he could catch his breath, he’d stop tasting stale dust on the back of his tongue, stop seeing the cave and stop feeling the water take his breath away and he can’t breathe—   
    
“Shame we don’t have more time,” it says lowly, drawing him out, and its hand is a heavy weight on the inside of Tony’s thigh. Steve, in any form, is an anchor to which Tony is bound. “I’d like to bury my cock in that hot little cunt of yours one last time. Bet you wouldn’t mind. You’d probably enjoy it, if I pulled your hair and called you a good boy.” The voice pitches lower, smug. “I know you wanna be a good boy for me, Tony, don’t you?”   
    
The brunette expects better reflexes from the other man, but to his own surprise, he succeeds in kicking it square in the jaw and knocking the blond back. Shock registers on its face, though Tony is otherwise occupied in attempting to get his footing and run—   
    
A hand catches his ankle in a cruel grip, grinding the bones. He claws at the floor, and his foot makes contact with the now-fractured jaw, but the hold does not give. The blade in its hand slices through the skin of his calf, shallow and warning. Taunting.   
    
_(this is it)_   
    
“No— no, don’t, Steve!” he sobs, breaths hitching as he scrambles away from the asset (because he has no other name by which to call this thing, so clearly empty). His assailant does not falter, advancing on him, and the ice in its eyes shines dully compared to the knife in its hand.   
    
Suddenly, he realizes that Steve Rogers could have his blood on those perfect hands; that no matter how many times he leaves bed in the middle of the night to wash it from his skin, half-asleep and horrified, it will never come clean.   
    
“Steve, please— fucking Christ, no—“ he breaks, shouting. “Fuck, help!”   
    
Metal fingers shoot out of the darkness and catch the thing’s throat, holding it in a chokehold despite the thrashing. Tony sags in relief.   
    
“You’re not going to hurt him, you can’t, Steve, _Christ_ , he’s got our baby in him— ” Bucky grits out, wrenching them away from Tony. The elbow aimed at his cheekbone connects with a sick crack and pain blooms, throbbing and sharp under his eye. He only tightens his hold in response.  _How long was he going to lie to himself that it would never be them?_ “Goddamnit, I’m not gonna fight you, come on—“    
    
“That’s all right,” it says, spitting blood through a grin. “I’ll fight you.”   
    
 When it uses Steve’s weight to slam back against Bucky and catch him off guard, the man’s momentary imbalance gives it the chance to spiral out of reach. It looks too pleased, moving so fluidly, and even more so when its fist connects with Bucky’s broken cheekbone. It’s rewarded with the exquisite feeling of shifting bones under its knuckles and a grunt of pain.     
    
“C’mon, whoever wins gets to cut him up first,” it jibes. “I know a few tricks, Bucky-boy, and I can’t wait to work with the Soldier. We’d make one hell of team, the two of us, side-by-side, just like old times, huh?”   
    
“Steve,” the other warns lowly and there is the glint of silver transfer from flesh-and-blood to indestructible, hears the threatening whirr of recalibrating plates. He can hold his own, knows how Steve fights.  “You ain’t touching him again, you hear me?”   
    
It leers in response, and it shifts the mask into a grin when it lunges.   
    
The problem, Bucky finds, is that it does not move like Steve Rogers. It is unpredictable, fast, and blood-thirsty, with the reflexes of a super soldier, and it fights _dirty_.   
    
It leaves James Barnes unconscious and bleeding on the floor. When it turns back to its prey, Tony startles, realizing he’d just sat there and watched as—as—   
    
 “Did you kill him?” Tony asks, fighting the swell of nausea that burns his throat. “Buck? James?”  He doesn’t move as the thing approaches, face smeared with blood and drawn with grotesque affection. His eyes flash to Steve’s face, no longer looking for the man underneath. “Did you kill him?”   
    
Something intangible changes about the thing, confusion rippling over the mask it wears. It throws a careless look over its shoulder, grimacing in distaste as it staggers drunkenly forward. He scrambles back, and the thing sinks to its knees to catch Tony’s ankle in a too-tight grip.   
    
And then it’s only Steve looking down at him with a maudlin horror that gives way to panicked dread.  “Tony, run,” he begs, and in that moment, Tony is struck by the agony in his voice, the absolute sorrow.  “Please, just get out of here, just go, and don’t come back. “   
    
“Steve,” Tony gasps, kicking at the hand around his ankle, “Steve, let me go!” he urges with his heart thudding heavily in behind his ribs, a spike of adrenaline and a desperate urgency weighing in his chest.   
    
With a shock of dismay, the blond finds that he cannot let go— and he cannot hold on.  “I can’t—Tony, please, don’t let me do this. Please—“    
    
 “— _don’t go, sweetheart_ ,” the thing finishes. “We aren’t done yet.”    
    
The world slants out of focus and this is not the time for a fucking panic attack— but his body betrays him, again and always, locking up with fear. “Steve,” Tony moans, wiping at the blood clouding his vision in vain; he can’t run if he can’t see, he can’t see— “Please _no god this isn’t you baby, steve please god n_ —”   
    
_(this is it, this is it, this is how it ends, with his hand on your throat)_   
    
 “I’m gonna cut that brat out of you, Tony Stark,” not-Steve snarls through bloodied teeth, dragging him bodily across the floor. “Gonna burn it _all_.” He flips the man over, straddling the struggling body and using his weight to keep him still.   
    
 Tony rears his fist back with the intent of fighting, but with a soldier’s reflexes, it hits him once, twice, three times in quick succession. Warm copper swells, pain blooming in Tony’s mouth as his failing vision swims, and he promptly spits a mouthful at the thing baring its not-Steve smile, curved sickly and wide.   
    
It wears him well, straight white teeth blooming from the smears of red and fire-bright blue eyes shining with rapture among crimson spatter. Its knuckles, split from Tony’s teeth, work eagerly to flip the knife into position, and this all looks too easy on him, too fluid.   
    
_(this is it)_   
    
In the silence before the ruin that awaits him, Tony searches for God, because he’s never been so close to the Beast. His free hand finds the tense muscle of the thing’s shoulder, fingertips brushing at the spot where _I love you_ had slipped out against Steve’s throat one early morning with Bucky asleep beside them.   
    
_(this is how it ends)_   
    
“God, please,” he begs. “I hope you don’t remember this.”   
    
    
Then the pain is sudden and deep, drawing him out of the dark. It is a beacon of light that he follows, only to find his nightmares heaving with life.   
    
“Oh God no,” he slurs breathlessly, seeing the knife in hand and blood pooling quickly on the floor. Trying to catch his breath only hurts worse and he lets out a wounded, wrecked sound.   
    
 “Sorry, fuck, I’m so sorry,” Bucky’s whispering into Steve’s hair, hand flush against his back where he’s got a blade buried between two of the man’s ribs. The blond groans in response, face twisted in pain as the knife sinks in deeper, smooth, like he’s nothing more than meat. Lips press to his ear. “I gotcha, sweetheart. It’s okay. I gotcha. Shh—”   
    
Tony scrambles out from under the two men, covered in his (but for the most part, not his) own blood. The thing that is not Steve snarls when Tony advances, and it struggles against the iron hold in which it’s caught, limbs immobile but so very strong. It can’t be held for much longer, even wounded.   
    
“Do it,” Steve begs, pressing back against Bucky, even as he tries to escape the hold. He burns with shame, covered in their blood.   
    
 He knows the knife in his ribs won’t, “Kill me, _do it_ —“ but the one in his hand— he wrenches his arm free, swiftly burying the blade.   
                    
Tony lurches forward a moment too late, shouting in wounded surprise as Steve sinks the knife into his own chest. He watches, helpless, as the blond stutters out a breath, and then a choked sound of pain.   
    
It burns, dragging the blade from his breastbone, and the blood that bubbles from the wound is a cancerous black. Steve doubles forward, gagging on the mixture of venom and blood as his heart pumps wildly into his throat. He grasps at the floor, desperate at his undoing.   
    
“Don’t move,” Bucky’s wide-eyed with panic, scrambling forward. He’s guiding Steve to lie on his side and clasping at the oozing wound as the man convulses in his lap.   
    
 “Oh god, Steve,” he’s applying pressure but blood keeps pumping, thick and dark. His hands are covered with blood and burning like they’ve been doused with acid, and his vision is blurry with tears, and he’s bleeding out right here— “Tony, help me, he’s bleeding too fast, _Tony, help me_ —“   
    
_Safe_ , Steve thinks when he sees Tony’s face swim into sight next to Bucky’s, even with the horror written so plainly there. They’re speaking to him, begging like they’ve never lost anything before, but he’s going dark, and for once, it doesn’t burn. The sick feeling of pain subsides.   
He doesn’t dream.


	6. Chapter 6

Steve’s drifting in that pleasant, hazy place between slumber and lucidity. There are waves of pain from his physical body that keep him clinging to sleep, half-listening to the conversation occurring by his bedside. They’re speaking in hushed tones, trying not to disturb the man sleeping between them.

Distantly, Bucky’s voice is explaining: “I didn’t get all of her books from the fire— fuck don’t look at me like that, I had to rush it, all right? We were going to _lose_ him, Tony. I’m sorry about the books. I didn’t even think— Well, they weren’t at the top of my list, I’ll tell ya that. I’ve only heard of shit like that only a few times, back…”

“Explain it to me, James,” Tony’s insisting, voice both curious and exasperated. He’d probably kill to be able to read through those tomes. “If you can.”

Bucky huffs, but he must feel bad about letting the books burn, because he only does as Tony asks.

 “She kept yelling about ruining some vessel, so that’s what I looked for,” he says. “And I found it, all right? The book said mark the vessel, then call the Old Ones. Then the vessel kills an innocent,” he powers on through Tony’s soft noise. “The last step of the... ritual was to ‘sacrifice something you cannot part with’.”

“Magic,” Tony spits distastefully. “That doesn’t even make any sense. If you’re sacrificing it, you can obviously part with it.”

“It means something you love, jackass,” Bucky mutters and Tony throws a sneer at him. But then he pauses, hesitates.

“Oh,” he says. “ _Ohh_.”

“Yeah. Y’know, for a genius, you’re pretty fuckin’ thick,” Bucky smiles, and it looks so good on him that Tony bites back his remark. The other stands. “I’m gonna get you some tea or somethin’, you look fucking terrible.”

“Love you too,” Tony snips, but he only realizes the fondly grateful tone of his remark after it’s out of his mouth.

Steve burns. He drifts.

 

He regains consciousness sometime in the night, vision swimming with the sheer amount of drugs it takes to keep him out. Asleep in the chair beside his bed, Tony looks as if he’s resting for the first time in weeks, body lax. The drugs soothe his vague pang of worry, and only then does he notice the shape sitting on his bed.

“I should have known,” Bucky says. He isn’t looking at him, but at the wall, and he’s got metal fingers loosely wrapped up around Steve’s own. “But I was so caught up with… I thought he was drinkin’, Stevie, and I couldn’t stop thinkin’ about how bad it would hurt you. I left you to get through it alone. I didn't...” 

The soldier goes quiet long enough for Steve to ride the waves of his high, slipping a bit deeper into sleep with every passing second. When the hand in his moves, he tightens his grip, and though he’s far too tired to speak, manages to give a smile, even if it hurts. He doesn't want Bucky alone at a time like this. The three of them, so weak with guilt and self-loathing. They've chipped away so much of themselves that the others fit in the spaces left behind, supporting walls that can no longer stand alone. 

“Thanks,” he wants to say. His mouth is heavy and dry. “Mm,” he manages, testing his muscles and finding them weak.

“Don’t move, ya jackass. You've got two new holes in you,” Bucky hushes, smoothing warm fingers across Steve’s hairline. “It’s okay. This isn’t so bad. Much better doctors than the ones I’ve had stitch me up. You’re going to be fine, кукла,” and he says this more to himself, trying to ground himself in that half-reality.

Steve lets himself sink, tethered to the smooth plating of Bucky’s fingers against his palm. He likes it when the other slips up, and wishes the man was closer.

The soldier does not slip up.

However, he does lean in, laying his head against Steve's belly. If he concentrates, the sound of Steve's hearbeat resonates through his chest cavity loud enough to be heard. He counts the man's breaths, flooded with relief when the other drops back into a deep sleep.

"I gotcha," he says.

 

When Steve wakes again, it’s to sunlight and a flesh-and-blood hand in his. The throb in his back and the burning of his chest keep him from dozing off again, so he expends some effort to glance over.

Tony’s there, head resting on the bed by their hands. Bucky isn’t anywhere to be seen, but there’s a cup of cold tea sitting on the table. He suddenly feels like he’s been swallowing cotton balls, and prods at the hand in his.

The brunette jolts awake, looking equal parts disoriented and hopeful, the sleep fading as he realizes that Steve is there, awake, looking at him. Only Steve.

“Hey big guy,” Tony greets with a smile. “Glad to have you back.”

Without missing a beat, Steve rasps, “Is the baby okay?” and then, thickly, “water?”

When he reaches for the cup Tony offers, pain flashes bright and nauseating at his side. He responds with a hiss, features going tight and his hand flies to his ribcage.

“Yeah, he stuck you pretty good.” Tony watches Steve prod at the wound, testing the give, testing himself. This time, he guides the cup to the other’s mouth, shaking fingers closing over his. “But you were about to stick me, so I’m sure you won’t mind the trade-off. Been beating himself up over it, you know how he is. Could tell the guy all day and night that you’d forgive him for doing it a thousand times—“

Tony goes quiet, because he had. When he stands to refill the cup, the hold on his hand tightens. The question is still there, lingering unanswered and lined with fear.

“It… they’re fine,” he says dismissively, because he doesn’t trust himself to speak further without his voice breaking.  He smoothes stray locks of blond from Steve’s forehead, stroking his thumb over the man’s furrowed brow. “You’re the one we’re worried about.”

“I almost killed you,” Steve manages to say.

The other huffs his dry, mirthless laugh. “I was there. I know.”

There’s a hesitant pause between them, and Steve is genuinely curious when he asks, “Why are you here?”

This time, Tony’s laugh is almost genuine, but the gaunt, drawn face of the man he loves wrenches something uncomfortably in his belly. He slides a hand to the side of Steve’s throat, fingers brushing the sharp line of the man’s jaw.

“You wound me, Cap. You think I’m such a scrub I wouldn’t sit day and night beside my boyfriend’s hospital bed?” Tony grins, never letting his weakness show, even if his mask falters just a little bit.

He won’t mention the sleepless hours, those vulnerable places in time when he’d convinced himself they’d never get him back.

 “I _hurt_ you,” Steve chokes, eyes fixed on the ceiling because he can’t meet the other’s gaze. Nothing will ever be the same, and for all he’s done to patch the broken glass, he was the one to shatter it. "I hurt him. I tried to k-kill you both, Tony. I wanted to."

He closes his eyes against the soft touch of fingertips brushing the tears from his cheeks.

“Hey, no, please don’t— honey, don’t cry,” Tony coaxes gently, inexperienced in comfort but well-versed in needing it.

“It wasn’t you. Sam’s perfectly fine now too, he had no idea. Poor guy. But no side effects, other than the few bruises— well, we had to _catch_ him, and it’s not like he made it easy,” he explains quickly at Steve’s alarmed expression. “He got off easy. I figured out how to neutralize the venom in a _not_ stabbing ourselves way. I’ll spare you the details, but I did have to call Strange, if not begrudgingly….”

“Did I— hurt anyone else?”

 _You were covered in it_. “No one’s dead.” _That we know of._

Steve doesn’t look anymore comforted by that information. “I don’t remember much. We were fighting again, and I saw Sam on my way there. Those things I said, Tony, I didn’t— I couldn’t stop myself. I didn’t want to, but you have to know I didn’t mean them—“

“Woah, calm down—"

“Bucky, God, I did everything I could to fuck with his head.” Steve covers his face, pained, but Tony catches his hands. “What else did I do? It’s all hazy, red… I can't remember, even if I try... like a movie I’ve seen, but fell asleep watching.”

“You’ve got tons of practice with that,” Tony smiles, and though he shoots for lighthearted, he misses it by a mile. He sighs, fingers tracing the tendons of the man’s wrist and hands.

“Look… Everything’s fine now, and that’s the only thing that matters.  I’ll heal, I mean, obviously not as fast as you or Buck, but I’ve had worse, and you have too. I’m _pretty_ sure Bucky has. We’ll take care of you, and maybe when you don’t have a hole in your lung, you can try apologizing for all that shit.”  

Steve sobers, his attention snapping to the brunet. “You still… even after what I did?”

“I’ll add it to the other nightmares you can fuck me back to sleep from.” Tony shrugs, smiling despite the thick air between them, all those words unsaid and fleeting. “It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t you. …And you stabbed yourself for me, so I was thinking you just might deserve another shot.”

Bucky chooses this moment to walk in, smiling with relief at the sight of Steve conscious and… well, not evil. He takes the empty side of the bed and Steve’s free hand, pressing his palm to the blond’s. He’s still smiling when he kisses their linked hands, and he lets his mouth linger to hide when it falters.

“Thank you,” the blond finally manages. “For doing what you had to.”

A heavy silence follows.  Though Steve can’t see it, he can feel the regret rolling off the two men sitting in front of him. Time hasn’t passed for him like it has for the others, and it’s a mix of drugs and apprehension that makes him feel sick.

“I’m sorry about everything I said before,” he says. “I should have talked to you instead of trying to fix us like I don’t share some of the blame. I don’t want to change you. I don’t want to lose this.”

The brunettes share a look, almost surprised at the shift in resolution.

Bucky shakes his head. He doesn’t like Steve’s increasing collection of regrets, cycling through them with no reprieve. From one page to the next.

 “It wasn’t your fault. Or his. You wouldn’t hold it against us if things had gone different, if it was one of us. We got you back, so we’ll just forget about everything, all right?”

The hand in his squeezes gently, and Tony cuts in with a begrudging smile. “Well, let’s no forget about everything… as much as I hate to admit it, I think you were right. We should talk. We need to… though maybe this time, we see someone else. A professional. _Highly_ qualified.”

“Sure. We’ll burn through ‘em  till we find one that won’t quit,” Bucky agrees. The blonde goes a bit pale, and Bucky misjudges. He hastens to add, “or till we’re all fixed up nice and proper, just like you want.”

“Manor’s been pretty empty,” Tony offers, thoughtful. “Could move the team into a more… forced bonding situation. Of course, all in due time. We’ve got to get our Captain off his star-spangled ass.”

Steve decides he’ll take it where he can get it. “Thanks.”

He smiles softly, leaning his head back on the pillow. They’re pumping painkillers into him at doses that could kill a horse, but he’s only pleasantly buzzed (not to mention, the ever-present pain each time he takes a breath), but that pales in comparison because he’s able to say things he never thought he could, like—  “’Mean, we gotta do better if we’re gonna have a kid, right?”

Bucky glances over at Tony, who’s gone rigid.

“I guess there are some things you just can’t forget,” Tony jokes lamely. “Guess the things your boyfriends say while you chase them all psycho-killer is one of a few.”

 “I don’t know if that’s a such a good idea, see,” Bucky tries. “No offense, you said it yourself, Stevie, we got a lot of shit to fix, but we’re all fucked up and he’s got a fuckload of problems as it is—“

“I’d have to go off hormones,” Tony cuts in, looking between them, waiting for them to backtrack, find some way out of this. When he gets nothing but rapt attention, he continues: “That means some pretty awful mood swings. Probably even worse with a baby, so if you can handle me crying all the time...” _And the dysphoria,_ something taunts. He falters, and even through the haze of drugs, Steve catches it.

“I don’t want you thinking that carrying this child will invalidate who you are.” _(“Oh spare me, Steve, I don’t need this speech,” Tony moans). ”_ You’re still Tony Stark, the genius who surpassed his father’s legacy. You’re Iron Man, an irreplaceable aspect of the Avengers, Tony, and you’ve made yourself to be more than you think.” The others can feel the sentiment coming and of course, Steve’s eyes go a bit wet. “You’re— you’re amazing, Tony, and nothing will change that.”

“Whatcha expect? You’re fuckin’ around with Captain America,” Bucky chimes in.

“Not you too, Jimmy—“

“How many people get to say that?”

Tony mumbles back, “Besides you?” and the other responds with an encouraging, if not leering, smile.

“Whatever happens, we’ll support your decision,” Steve says. He looks as if this pains him, like he’d carry them to the ends of the world walking on hot coals to keep _this_. “It’s ultimately your choice, and no matter what that choice is, Tony, we’re here for you. You don’t even have to make it now.”

“Well…” Tony trails off weakly. These men he’s given everything for, the ones for whom he’ll keep giving all he has to offer, are looking at him as if he holds their future in his hands. He supposes that he does. In his womb. Whatever, he’s in control.

For once, he’d like to do something for someone other than himself ( _but just maybe, he wants to admit he might want this too_ ). He’d like to give it to them.

Maybe it will loosen the stones, bring down the walls. A child won’t fix anything between them—that if anything, it will make everything harder, but they are foolish enough to want this, to convince themselves that it will make them _try_.

And so it’s the open, hopeful compassion on Steve’s face and the weight of Bucky’s hand in his that makes him crack a smile. 

“Okay then,” he says. “Who wants to be ‘daddy’?”

 

Something swells in Steve’s chest, pooling slowly in the place where he only half-remembers burying a knife to save _this_ , and he smiles. 

It burns. 

**Author's Note:**

> (this is all basically written save for a few scenes and I can't help posting constantly so it'll all be up soon enough)
> 
> hello, yes, i've changed my name
> 
> this is for real finished now sorrrrrry! 
> 
> 12/15: that's it! that's all, folks! if you have a prompt or something, I can dig it.


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